


just you and i

by loghainmactir



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Loghain Lives 'Verse, M/M, Multi, Non-Canon Relationship, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14033952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loghainmactir/pseuds/loghainmactir
Summary: When Padril Mahariel spares Loghain Mac Tir's life at the Landsmeet, he gains more than just a new ally.A rewrite of canon events to suit my own "canon".





	1. two last wardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Landsmeet is only a day away, and the stress is beginning to wear at Mahariel. After disappearing into the crowds of Denerim, a friend comes to console him.

They had arrived in Denerim a little after midday. With foreheads glistening under the bright afternoon sun, they headed to the estate in the centre of the Market. Still dirtied and bloody from their travels, they're treated to a lunch much bigger and luxurious than they’d had in years. Two impossibly large birds sat at either end of the table, vegetables plated around them. Padril hadn’t seen that amount of food all together in one spot before in his life, and he ate little. He swore if he swallowed anything, it’d just come back up again.

Escorted through the estate by Eamon, they made themselves comfortable where-ever they were told to. After a whole year on the road, sleeping with moth-eaten blankets and weather-worn tents, wearing the same set of armour every day- it was difficult to adjust. The Arl's estate was so wildly different to what they’d gotten used to that it was jarring.

As soon as everyone was looking elsewhere, Padril escaped outside. 

They’d been to Denerim a few times before for the odd job or necessary purchase. Nothing that ever required more than a day’s stay, but the experiences made the crowds less overwhelming. Regardless, he kept Eamon’s estate within eyesight the entire time. He imagined it was all too easy to lose one single elf in this city; if anyone _really_ needed him, they’d find him easily.

Padril settled at a stall run by an elderly human woman. She was hunched over and covered in wolf furs to protect her from the chilly Ferelden wind, her grey hair tied back in a tight bun. Her little wooden table was full of hand-made scented candles and soaps and incense. If she ever turned her nose up at his pointed ears and the vallaslin on his skin, he didn’t notice.

His eyes scanned the table for a moment, and he plucked a bar of cream soap from it. He lifted it to his nose and breathed in; it smelt like honey and vanilla, and he paid three gold extra for it. Well, he was going to die in the next few days, he figured he’d better smell good doing it. Padril turned around, about to pocket the soap, but instead he ran straight into what felt like a big, human-shaped metal wall.

They caught his elbow as he stumbled backwards, and a light chuckle came from them– oh, it was Alistair. He hadn’t removed his armour– then again, neither had Padril– and it made him look bigger than he already was. Alistair was tall and soft under all that metal. Good for hugs. But running into him like that kinda stung. 

For the first time in a longest time, there was a warm smile on Alistair’s face. “Hey there, bud,” He greeted. “Preparing for the Landsmeet?”

A smirk played on his face. As much as he had come out to avoid the Landsmeet discussion, Alistair was one of his best friends. So Padril offered the bar to him. “Yeah, actually. Thought you could use it! You’re the worst smelling shem I’ve ever met!”

Alistair laughed and took the bar– his face crinkled as he smelt it and he tossed it back to him with a shake of his head. “I’m much more of a, uh, lavender kinda guy.” He admitted. “Uh—if you’re not busy right now, d’you– um, want to go talk?” Padril gave a sharp nod, and he followed him out of the market, hit the main streets of Denerim.

The streets were full of people; refugees from the blight were everywhere. Bleeding and crying in the alleyways, sleeping on steps, begging for copper at the corners. It was hard to move, and it took almost thirty minutes just to walk to the docks. Padril kept his hand on his coin-purse the entire trip.

They settled on the end of one of the wooden piers. Padril pried off his leather boots and let his feet dangle to the water underneath. Alistair sat a little back, made sure his metal boots didn't get wet. The sun was warm, and the water was bright blue and sparkling. For everything that was happening and was about to happen– it was beautiful. As beautiful as a city like Denerim could be, anyway.

For a few moments they sat in a comfortable silence, staring out at the Amaranthine Ocean. It was then that Alistair cleared his throat. “So... it’s tomorrow. Are you nervous?”

A hollow laugh escaped Padril’s throat. “I don’t know how we’re gonna do this. The Landsmeet— it’s full of nobles who’ve known Loghain their whole life. Or, almost. What have we done to earn their trust? For all they know, we’re the traitors.” 

“Funnily enough, when you left that’s what Eamon talked about. He says there’s some who aren’t too sure about him. Like we can convince them we’re worth listening to, that the Blight is the real threat here.” Alistair scowled for a second as silence fell over them again. His voice grew grave. “We can do it. We have to. For Cailan. For Duncan. They need justice.”

As sure as Alistair sounded, Padril wasn’t quite there. “I’m so tired of everything.” He sighed heavily. “I want it to be over.” A thick arm wrapped around him, and suddenly, Padril was leaning into it— it was grounding, comforting. 

“We can do this,” He repeated. “I mean, really, look at what we’ve survived so far. Zevran’s assassination attempt—“ _That made_ Padril laugh, “The tower, the Anvil. We found Andraste’s ashes, Padril. We did that! What’s one more man to us, huh? That’s all he is.” It was clear he was trying to be reassuring. He was trying _so hard_ — Padril appreciated it. “And afterwards we’ll go to Highever for Duncan, and Orlais for Leliana and Sten’ll go to Par Vollen but we’ll bake him cookies. We’ll have to find Wynne a giant quilted blanket—“ He stopped himself. “We’ll be ok.”

“Eamon will still want you to be king, you know.”

“I know.” He sounded so uncomfortable— Padril felt guilty for even mentioning it. “But they’ll find someone else. I mean, they’ve got to. I— I’d make a horrible king. A terrible one. Really! Could you imagine it? _Me_ , in all those fancy robes? Ick.” Alistair pulled away, then, and gave a shudder. “Morrigan’d never let me live it down. I can hear her mocking me now. And all those meetings they have to attend— nuh-uh. Nope! It’s just… such a bad idea.” 

He’d started to ramble. Usually, Padril would’ve listened regardless– but his mind was wandering. The cold seawater splashed against his legs, and he kicked it back. 

“They’ll find some poor sod who actually wants it,” Alistair continued. “Like– oh, maybe one of the Couslands. I know they’re, um, _few_ in numbers these days, but I think the youngest and the oldest children are still around. Fergus– the older one, I think?– is meant to be pretty popular. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway–“ He caught himself again, and quickly shut himself up. He could tell he was starting to feel self-conscious, now. It radiated off of him like heat, made the silence enveloping them awkward and uncomfortable.

So the elf nudged him in the ribs with his elbow and offered his most reassuring smile. It was a struggle, but for Alistair, he’d muster it. “I love you, y’know. And so does everyone else. We won’t let anyone rope you into something you don’t wanna do.” He promised.

It got Alistair smiling, at the very least. “I love you too, bud. Y’know, out of everyone it could’ve been– I’m glad I have you here. I dunno if we’d have gotten this far without you.” 

Padril couldn’t help it, but he snorted. “Oh, trust me,” He grabbed his boots from where they sat by his side. “Anyone could’ve done this a lot better.” Before he could protest, Padril yanked a spare rag from the pouches at his belt, dried the water from his skin, and pulled on his boots. “C’mon. We better go see who Eamon thinks we should butter up first.”

He offered his hand down to his friend, and Alistair took it. Padril made sure he was a few steps ahead of him, avoiding his eyes. The Landsmeet loomed over his head. And what awaited them if they really did fail? Execution? Loghain would never realize the threat of the Blight in time. It was already too late. The past year would be for nothing, and Ferelden would probably fall. And it’d all be on _him_.

 _Creators_ , Padril thought. _Why hadn’t everyone just left me to rot like they had Tamlen?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic, so I hope I can update semi-regularly; I'm handwriting these first! I'm not super confident with Alistair's voice, so I'm sorry if this was particularly bad!
> 
> There's also no Loghain in this chapter, but he'll definitely be in the second chapter!


	2. one last warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewrite of the Landsmeet and a slight expansion of Alistair's departure. While one is betrayed, the other is heartbroken and hopes his choice is the right one; the Grey Wardens lose a valuable ally in their time of need.

A dangerous silence fell over the Landsmeet after Riordan suggested it. Alistair, Anora, Eamon, Padril, the nobles surrounding them– they all stared at Riordan with wide eyes, not quite sure if they’d heard him correctly. Loghain was still on his knees, eyes on the ground. 

Alistair was the first to break out of his stunned silence. “No,” His voice was sharp, full of loathing. “No! You’re out of your mind if you think that’s an option. We’re not making this man– this _monster_ – a Grey Warden. I won’t have it.” He shook his head and he started to pace.

Eamon began to speak next, though he hardly paid attention to what he said. Padril had never liked that shem. Too old and fragile. The stories Alistair’d told him made him seem cruel, no matter how much he had insisted otherwise. Eamon agreed with him. Said it was dangerous to keep such an influential man and his daughter alive. His words settled uncomfortably in Padril’s stomach. 

“– And besides, are we forgetting what he’s done?! Riordan, he tortured you! And he blamed us–“ Alistair span on his heel mid-pace, jabbed his finger between himself and Padril. “– for Ostagar! He tried to have us killed! Padril?! Padril! Don’t tell me you’re thinking about it! Answer me!”

The Dalish never did pay attention to the goings-on of humans. It kept them alive to stay well away. His clan had been across the sea when Loghain had earned his fame and love of the people; all he knew of the man was that he was a peerless tactician and military leader. Leliana had once filled him in on some stories– where he’d come from, why he hated Orlais so much. In a way, Padril could almost see why things had played out the way they had. He’d do the same for his clan, right?

These stupid, Creators-be-damned shems. Why was this all up to him? So much had been riding on him already, and now this. If it hadn’t been tiring him out before, it was starting to now.

Riordan’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and Padril jerked out of his thoughts. “Well?” He looked at him expectantly. Shit. Right, they’d asked his opinion. He looked at Alistair, still pacing with a fierce scowl on his face. His knuckles were going white on the pummel of his sword.

Padril swallowed and glanced from person to person. Ok. On one hand, Loghain was a fierce combatant– his fight with Riordan minutes ago proved that. But on the other, Alistair wasn’t _wrong_. Duncan and Cailan, the lot of them— someone had to answer for it. This all could’ve been avoided, if Loghain had just… 

He straightened up, now aware of the few hundred eyes on him. Crap, crap, crap. Ok. He opened his mouth, and when he spoke his shaky voice echoed across the great stone hall. “Well, we all agreed Anora that Anora would be queen. And Riordan… has a point,” He started, glancing around at each face, unsure of where to look. “The Archdemon, it— we need all the help we can get— there’s… there’s not enough of—“

Alistair stared at him, dumbfounded. Slowly but surely, rage spread across his face, cheeks burning red. “What?!” Loghain had lifted his head in surprise. Padril could see, out of the corner of his eye, as Anora walked to her father's side. He watched her help Loghain to his feet. “I– how could you say that? You want him to live after all… _this_? We wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for him!” His hand had left his sword and he’d stopped pacing to stare at him. Padril worried that he looked ready to hit something instead– someone.

“Alistair,” Riordan began, “We cannot let an opportunity like this pass us. We need the numbers, we cannot hope to win this without more Wardens–“

Anora cut in then. Loghain stood at her side, and she had her hand at his elbow. “Putting your own personal grudge over new Grey Warden recruits is petty and foolish, Alistair. You need all the help you can get. Maric and Cailan would have never refused him. Duncan—“

He turned on her in the blink of an eye, fuming. “You don’t get a say in this! This is our decision!” He jammed a finger into his own chest. Words caught in Padril’s throat, heart aching, wanting to take it all back.

This was a mistake.

The surprise of getting openly yelled at quickly disappeared from Anora’s face. She straightened up, brushed down the front of her gown as if it had dirt on it. Her expression was calm when she finally looked at him. “May I remind you, Alistair, that I am your queen. And I do not appreciate treatment to the contrary.” 

Alistair scowled, but pursed his lips otherwise. His fists balled up. 

Anora continued; she spoke about how Alistair couldn’t remain in Ferelden, how his name might tempt civil wars. He was some sort of risk to human politics; Padril couldn't concentrate on it all. His head felt light and he swore, for a moment at least, that he was floating outside of his body. 

“You know what?” He unclenched his fists, threw them in the air as if surrendering. “Fine. You’ve all made up your minds. If this is how it’s going to be, if this is the type of people we’re accepting into our ranks, I don’t want to be apart of it.” He unbuckled his sword and sheath, and he tossed it at their feet. It landed against the stone floor with a loud clatter, made Eamon and Riordan and the rest cringe. “You’ll be doing this without me.” He said, and without another word, Alistair Theirin turned on his heel and stormed out of the palace.

Padril stared after him with wide eyes. As the heavy wooden doors slammed shut, the Landsmeet erupted into murmured gossip.

\---

The Landsmeet ended about fifteen minutes after Alistair had made his departure. It was announced that Anora would remain Queen. She'd be crowned as such if they survived the coming battle; Anora was to lead the army to Redcliffe. It was decided that Loghain's Joining would be the night before they left for Redcliffe castle.

Not that Padril cared for any of that— well, not much, at least. The shems could do as they pleased. As soon as he could, he left, following the directions the guards pointed him in, leaving his companions to play catch-up. 

It was beginning to get late, but the Landsmeet had drawn thousands to Denerim’s streets, nervously awaiting their new monarch. Padril had to shove through the thick crowd, few recognising him for who he was. When he broke free of the swarm of people, he bolted down the old cobblestone streets as fast as his tired legs could take him.

Padril all but kicked down the doors to Eamon’s estate. He sprinted up the hallway and its stairs, sweating and panting in his leather armour. The elf turned a corner, and—  
He ran headfirst into Alistair. Almost knocked him clean over, but he caught his footing. 

His eyes were red as if he’d been crying, and the pack he used to carry his things on the road was slung over his back. Strapped to his hip was now an old, battle-worn thing with scars dotting the blade.

“If you’re here to try and stop me, you’re too late. You made what you think clear enough when you decided you wanted that traitor in our ranks.” Alistair looked like he was finished with it all—but then he stopped himself. “I still can’t believe you’d—no, I can. You know, I thought you were different. I thought you were my friend and you’d do what was right.” His face scrunched up in disgust. He tried to push past, but Padril found himself stepping in his way.

“Alistair, please,” He begged. “You’re being stupid, we can—“

The words slipped out of his mouth before he had known just _what_ he was saying; he immediately regretted it. “Stupid? Stupid?!” Alistair snarled. “We spent the last year going through hell! I thought I could trust you, and instead you spit on everything Duncan ever—“

“It’s not all about you and Duncan!” Padril shouted, and he balled up his fists, thumped them straight onto his breastplate. Alistair stumbled back a little, and Padril’s hands grew numb under his leather gloves. “I never asked for this! This entire time I’ve been putting people’s lives in danger and making stupid decisions because you—“ His voice cracked and wobbled, threatening to give in. “—you never wanted to! You trusted me to make the right choices!” 

He had to stop and wipe his eyes on his hands. His chest felt tight, like someone was weighing him down. No, he wouldn’t cry over some stupid shem. “And I’m—I’m _sorry_ , but we’re the only Wardens in Ferelden and we’re about to run headlong into our own deaths. We need all the help we can get, even if… even…” He swallowed past the lump in his throat, aching from yelling. When he spoke again, his voice was soft—afraid. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

And for a _minute_ , Alistair seemed to consider what he’d said. Brown eyes darted away, unsure. Maybe he hadn’t ruined everything after all. Maybe his best friend didn't hate him.

“You could have conscripted _any_ one else.” He said, looking back at him, a hard scowl on his face. He didn’t sound angry anymore; his voice was flat, only a small wobble in his voice betraying him. “Anyone in Denerim. Anyone in _Ferelden_. And yet you chose the man who left our king—my half brother—and Duncan to die. He left them at Ostagar and they were—the darkspawn—“ He went quiet, if only for a heartbeat. “Is that the kind of person we accept into the order now? The Grey Wardens are heroes. They’re honourable. Loghain shouldn’t get a second chance.” Hate dripped from his mouth, made Padril recoil a little.

“Do you remember Daveth?” Padril asked. His hand lifted to the amulet around his neck. It was silver, no bigger than a coin, but round and smooth like a river stone and warm to the touch. Trapped inside, he knew, was blood from his Joining. Recognition flickered across Alistair’s face, but he remained scowling otherwise. “And Jory? Jory was a knight from Highever. I remember him telling me—one of their best. But Daveth? Daveth was a criminal, Alistair. Loghain _is_ the type of people the Wardens recruit. All the damn time.”

Alistair squinted and glared at him. “Daveth was a _pickpocket_ , Mahariel. Not someone who committed treason and left hundreds to die. He tried to cut Duncan’s purse. Don’t you _ever_ compare them– Daveth was a _good_ man!” His voice rose, and then he shook his head and shoved past him, making no effort to be polite about it. “I won’t be coming back. Ever. Don’t try to find me.”

Padril tried to rack his brain, tried to think of something—anything to say to keep his best friend there. “Wait! Alistair!” He twisted around, and then froze when Alistair looked at him. At least it got him to stop. He was at the bottom of the first hallway ramp, headed for the doors that lead out into Denerim proper. “I—where-ever you go, stay safe, ok?” It was then that he realized his hands had balled up below his chest. Padril let his hands drop. “I don’t… I…” What else could he say? There was nothing—Creators, he was so useless.

The man in front of him is quiet for a long moment. “Good luck in the battle.” He said. He sounded cold again; as much as that was, Padril could tell he was furious; that kind of anger that made you feel numb and empty. “I hope, for everyone’s sakes, that he doesn’t decide to repeat what he did at Ostagar.” 

His heart sunk as he watched him turn on his heel. Before he knew it, before he could stop himself, his cheeks felt hot and damp and damn it– he was crying, he was crying over this _stupid shem_ and he _loved_ him and he wanted him to come back—

Padril hid his head in his hands and stood there, frozen still in the great hall of Arl Eamon’s estate. When he looked up, tears streaking down his dark cheeks, Alistair Theirin was gone.

And just like that, Padril was the last Grey Warden in Ferelden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop! I'm so sorry for the extremely late addition to this fic! Life got INCREDIBLY busy and despite having the chapter handwritten, I kinda got writers block'd typing it up. Lots of angst in this, and a brief Loghain appearance. Originally, this chapter was a LOT longer, but I figured I'd split it so it doesn't go overboard. 
> 
> In Origins, I'm really disappointed in the lack of confrontation between the Warden and Alistair when you recruit Loghain. I know because of time it wasn't added in, but I would've loved for the Warden to try and explain their reasoning for recruiting him a little better-- maybe it could've even ended in keeping both of them.
> 
> Of course, Padril and Alistair are both young, stubborn and incredibly upset here, so right now that's not how it works out. But maybe eventually! :thinking emoji: (Also, I'm not totally convinced on my characterisation of Alistair here. Oh, well. I tried. I'm sorry!)


	3. joining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loghain awakens from the Joining to a gift and a warm welcoming to the Grey Wardens.

By the _Maker_ , they had not prepared him for that.

There were very few types of pain Loghain Mac Tir had not endured. He’d been shot full of arrows, stabbed with swords, bashed around the head by warhammers, poked with poison daggers—you name it, and he’d seen it. Or felt it, rather.

But the Joining… the Joining was another type of beast all together. He could just barely remember it; ice shooting through his veins, the indescribable pain in his head, the _visions_. The last thing he clearly remembered was losing all feeling in his body and collapsing. Riordan’s voice came through muffled and gentle, like he was too far away to make out the words.

He was no longer on the floor. He could feel the heavy, comforting weight of a blanket on top of him, and his head rested on a duck-feather pillow. Slowly, one of his eyes cracked open, and he cringed. Bright, piercing morning light from open windows stung his eyes and he was much more aware of the pounding the back of his head.

It took him a moment to adjust to the light. He didn’t quite recognize the room he was in, but the furniture was expensive– not the palace, he’d have known it at a glance. Eamon’s estate? More likely; he pitied them, whoever carried him there. He wasn’t the lightest man around.

Loghain pushed himself up against the wooden headboard. He sucked in a deep breath; his entire body hurt as it moved, groaning in protest at even the slightest disturbance. 

As he looked around, he noticed two things. His belongings had been organized on and around a small, plain chair. His sword and shield rested up against the side of it, his pack on the seat, his armour organized against the wall behind it. Someone had tucked his boots underneath the seat itself. 

The second— in the corner of the room two sharp, cat-like green eyes peered out from the dim shadows, unblinking.

He jerked back, the back of his head smacking into the headboard. His thoughts raced for the minute that they stared at one another. It had to be some unhappy sod hired by someone from the Landsmeet to finish what the Joining should’ve. Or it was some _Orlesian_ assassin come to prey on him that he was no longer important, revenge for kicking them out of Ferelden–

But they leant forward into the sunlight, exposing a soft nose, lips pressed into a thin line, pointed ears… oh. The Warden. He wasn’t quite sure if that were the better outcome. Regardless, Loghain tried to relax his shoulders.

“I’m glad the Joining didn’t kill you.” He said it, but Loghain heard the contempt in his voice. He didn’t blame him for that. He was more than used to it, after all. They both went quiet for a beat, and he watched Padril look away, focusing his gaze on the boots under the chair.

Padril pressed forward into the sunlight, scooting his chair along with him. For a second, he rummaged about in the pockets of his brown cloth pants, and eventually held a balled up fist towards him. A silver chain dangled out from it. “This is yours.” 

Loghain struggled out of bed, limbs stiff and sore. 

It was _then_ he realized that someone had changed him into his smallclothes while he was out; the same person who’d taken him to the estate in the first place, undoubtedly. The cold breeze from the window made him shudder, and he pulled the sheets from the bed around his shoulders. Finally, Padril looked back to him.

Had he bothered the elf? He didn’t blame him for that either, all things considered. No one wanted to see their former enemy half-naked. Loghain shrugged it off.

His bare feet hit the cold stone floor as he leant towards him, hand outstretched.

The amulet dropped into his palm. It was surprisingly warm– not from Padril’s hand, not like he’d expected, but almost as if it were alive. Loghain pulled back, rolled it around in his grasp. “What’s this, then?”

“The Warden’s Oath,” Padril said, voice blunt. “It contains the blood from your Joining. Or, some of it, anyway. It’s _meant_ to be a reminder of the burden and the risk we carry– to remember those who didn’t survive the Joining.” He paused, but only for a second. “But there was no one else at yours, and you’ll probably live with that for a very long time as is.” The elf didn’t exactly say it to him; it was more of an out-loud thought. Loghain pursed his lips. He was right.

“I lost my best friend because of you.” He said, then, tone a little harsher. “Just so you know. I don’t want to regret my choice.” Loghain can tell he was trying to stay cold, stay mad. But his voice wobbled as he spoke, and he swore he could barely see his eyes glimmer. 

Truth be told, a horrid heavy feeling formed in Loghain’s chest. The Warden couldn’t have been older than 25; he was young, and all of Ferelden had their eyes and their hope on him. He knew how that felt; it reminded him of when he and Maric had been younger. The heavy feeling settled to his gut, and turned to guilt.

Instead, though, Loghain forced his expression into a soft frown. He rested the amulet in his lap. “Yes, well, you’ll have to thank me for that later, if we survive,” His voice was dry. “Don’t worry too much, Warden. You won’t regret your decision.” Padril looked away and swallowed heavily, almost like he was forcing something down. 

He stayed silent as he stood; Padril wasn’t very tall. 5’7 at best, Loghain estimated. At least compared to him, it was short– regardless, it felt as if the elf was standing over him, judging. He gave a soft huff. “We start the march to Redcliffe in two hours.” Back to being blunt. Padril’s eyes had stopped glistening. “Eat, bathe, prepare however you like. We’ll be going with the Queen and her army, not Eamon’s, so you’ll probably have time with her, still. We’ll meet you at the gates.”

Just as quickly as he’d stood, Padril moved to the door, eager to leave. 

“Wait, Warden.” – Shit. For once, he hadn’t thought that far ahead and the words caught in his throat as he looked at him. What was he meant to do? Apologize? Foolish old man. He shouldn’t have been there. 

“Thank you.”

It was all he could manage.

He was unsurprised to see Padril scowl. Whether it was in disapproval, Loghain couldn’t tell. “We march in two.” He repeated. As suddenly as he’d appeared there, Padril was gone.

Loghain wondered just what he’d done to deserve a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Womp, sorry for the time between chapters! I'd started the next chapter, but kind of got writers' blocked. 
> 
> A recent comment/kudos on this fic actually kicked me back into gear! This is a shorter chapter because originally it was MEANT to be apart of the last one, but I reorganized them to make more sense, sort of.
> 
> Also, spot the parallels between last chapter and this chapter. /weep
> 
> Next chapter will hopefully get done quicker! I promise I'll start the story instead of fiddlefarting around (eventually).


	4. to amaranthine, and beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blight is over. Both Loghain and Padril have been distant, trying to recover after killing the Archdemon; but that is not what Anora has in mind for them. So begins a new adventure.

Enormous black wings blot out the skies above Denerim. It’s almost mid-day, but the smoke and the fire and the _monster_ flying above them make it as dark as night-time.

Exhausted and sweaty, they storm the gates. Darkspawn scream and hiss, but they do not falter. He watches three men run in head first and wound up gut-deep on hurlock spears.

The buildings, crates, carts, people— it is all on fire. When the wind blows the right way, he can’t see or breathe for all the smoke; Creators, his lungs burn. It’d been so long since they’d had fresh air. It is in their eyes and lungs and noses— that, and the blood.

It coats the stone pebbles; human and elf and dwarf and darkspawn, all indistinguishable from the next. As they delve deeper into the city, they find they’ve slit throats and left them to drown in the streets.

A shriek disembowels a woman on the main road and goes for a girl trying to hide nearby. Padril fills it with arrows, and it collapses at the young elven girl’s feet. Her blonde, choppy short hair has gone a ruddy brown from blood and ashes, and her bright eyes are terrified. They take the time to lead her back to safety, and Padril offers her a spare bow and some of his arrows so she’d feel safe.

They fight their way through the Market. Sten and Loghain sprint ahead, charging a group of ogres. A shout rises in Padril’s throat, terrified — but then six, seven mages pass him, and the destroyed Market lights up with lightning. An ogre drops with a scream, twitching and writhing. He’d forgotten they were even there, too focused on surviving. For the first time since the battle had started, Padril felt empowered—

They all watch as Riordan’s grip on his sword grows weak, and he falls— and falls, and falls, and falls. They never do find his body.

He remembers the frenzied dash for a ballista at the top of Fort Drakon, his hands covered in hot blood. His friends and allies scatter as the rooftop floods with purple hellfire. He remembers the creak and groan of wood under his hands. He aims it, unsure, anxious— the ballista shudders as he fired, the bolt flying across the rooftop. It slams into the Archdemon, piercing through its ribcage, spraying ichor onto the soldiers below it. 

It stumbles. The tower underneath him shakes, and for a moment he’s terrified that it’s going to come down beneath them. Padril watches as Loghain runs straight for the dragon, a snarl on his face, sword raised. The Archdemon’s head jerks up, aiming to catch him in its jaws. Loghain manages to dip underneath it and slide, thrusting his blade up into its neck. The dragon gives a strangled cry.

Padril loads another bolt into the ballista. Soldiers back up as the Archdemon tries to stand, shaking, roaring— he sucks in a deep breath, full of smoke and death, and he sends the bolt into its skull. Blinding light accompanies a high-pitched shriek, and he is thrown back. The back of his head hits the stone and colours flash before his eyes—

And then it is over. And then there is nothing.

***

Two weeks later and, for the most part, Loghain has been keeping low. Anora suggested it; those who sought to finish what the Joining should’ve would see this as the time to strike. Everyone is focused on rebuilding, not on the man largely responsible for lack of action.

They weren’t her words, but everyone thought them.

He’s been trying to lend himself to the task of helping rebuild things. It’s been what feels like ages since he last picked up a hammer and some nails, but Ferelden needs to be rebuilt. He did it once, he can do it again. 

Unsurprisingly, there were people who took one glance at him and told him to fuck off. That was fine by him; Denerim was a big place, and there was always someone who needed help. He spent days in the streets, helping fix windows and shingle roofs and rebuild furniture. 

It was difficult, knowing a lot of it could’ve been avoided if he’d not let his paranoia get the best of him. Maker, he’d been so convinced that he and Howe had been onto _something_ — that the Orlesians were trying to use the Blight as an excuse to take over once more. The thought plays on his mind for days. He does not regret avoiding Orlesian help, and he does not regret Ostagar, he decides. But they should’ve focused on the horde, maybe then—

No. There was no point dwelling on it. It was his fault. That was all.

He meets Anora for breakfast; he’s not meant to, he knows that. You’re meant to leave your life behind when you join the Wardens, but he has no orders, and as long as he’s in the same city as his daughter, his entire life is only minutes away from where he was staying.

They eat scones and oats with fruit and honey and it’s lovely; the dining room fills with sweet smells, warming them both. He offers Cauthrien, who had retreated to a position close-by to watch the doors, breakfast. She politely declines.

His daughter never beats around the bush; as soon as they’re done, she asks him to find Warden Mahariel for an audience. It’s hardly a surprising request, but it makes his body grow tense; he hasn’t seen the man since Anora’s coronation. He wasn’t too sure where he’d gone— regardless, he bids his daughter farewell, and starts making his way through the palace.

It hadn’t taken as many hits during the attack as the other buildings in the city, in part to the constant protection assigned to it. He’d asked Cauthrien himself to stay with Anora during the battle. Anora had her own guard, and she was _more_ than capable of taking care of herself, but… better safe than sorry. She’d stayed practically glued to his daughter’s side since, and he expected no less. They always had been close.

Servants and workers ran past him as he headed towards the Warden Compound. He’d only been to this part of the palace a few times before. Two great navy-blue tapestries hang along the hall’s walls, silver and gold griffons stitched into the fabric. A single, large wooden door sat between them, beckoning; it was then Loghain spotted Zevran, milling about the hall.

He seemed busy, rolling a sovereign about between his fingers, but as soon as he heard his footsteps, the assassin’s head snapped up. A broad grin appears on his face, and the coin is swept into a pocket. He stretches his arms wide in greeting. “Ah, Warden Mac Tir!” 

He is unsurprised to see him here; these elves were stuck to each other like glue. Zevran’s arms drop, and he folds them over his chest. He’s no longer wearing armour, instead opting for what appears to be leather breeches and a clean, red silk shirt. He still has daggers strapped to his outer thighs— but Zevran looks charming, his hair up in a messy bun.

Loghain scowls. He’d never tell him that.

“It is a pleasure to see you again! A grand job you did with the Archdemon, ser— I must admit to being just a _tiny_ bit jealous that I was not able to join the fight. Ah, but gate duty is equally as glorious, no?” He chuckles, and his smile settles into a smirk. “You are here to see Padril, yes?”

Loghain gives a nod, though it’s a little stiff. “I am, yes. I won’t lie— I thought you’d be halfway back to Antiva by now, Arainai. Didn’t you get paid?”

Zevran _laughs_. “Sometimes things are more important than coin, yes? To be fair, though, our lovely Queen— erm, your daughter— did not exactly offer me riches once everything was well and done. Perhaps I should have asked for some kind of compensation, indeed! It really all was quite traumatizing.” He seems to consider it for a moment, and then he waves a hand. “But, no. I have been looking after our dear friend— for the past two weeks, actually. He…” Zevran throws a glance over his shoulder. “is not in the best of places.”

“Fair enough.” Loghain scowls at the door to where Zevran’s eyes had gone. “Regardless, the Queen requests his presence. Will he be well enough?”

The assassin unfolds his arms and wrings his hands. “Ah, I would imagine so—“ He looks genuinely concerned when he finally meets Loghain’s gaze. “Please be careful with him, yes? I have not seen anyone quite like this before.” He watches Loghain nod, and Zevran frowns as he moves past him.

“I mean it, Loghain! Be gentle with the poor man! He is upstairs, two doors on the left!”

He waves his hand dismissively, and presses into the compound. 

The Warden Compound in Denerim is big enough to house twenty five, thirty Wardens at once. Outfitted with an office for a Commander, the vault, a library, and a meeting hall, it’s practically its own building inside the palace itself. It’s pleasantly warm when Loghain enters— down the hall, through the archway to the meeting room, he can see the faint glow of the fireplace. 

Carefully, Loghain starts up the stairs on either side of the hallway. The railings wooden; little carved griffons and dragons dance around each other the entire way up the stairs. His fingers linger on each bump and groove, marvelling at the artistry of it all.

The compound is quiet as he walks through the hall. He gets to the door Zevran had told him about and he knocks; it feels like the sound echoes, bounces of the wall. It’s a lonely place, here; warm, but empty. 

That’s his fault, too.

One minute, two minutes… three. There is no answer from inside, and he is starting to grow impatient. He cracks the door open.

His gaze lands on the large, black form curled on the bed. The door creaks as he opens it, and two brown eyes snap open to glare at him. _Dannan_ is the dog’s name, he remembers; the mabari rarely left Padril’s side, so he’s not surprised to see him there. 

Dannan’s positioned himself with his back pressed to the elf’s form, his head turned to guard the door. His cropped ears pricked up, and then flattened to his skull. A low, protective rumble came from the dog.

“Easy. Easy, boy. It’s only me.” He whispered, slipping into the room. He could now see how Padril was lying curled on his side, facing the opposite wall. Signs of Zevran were scattered about the room; a bedroll at the foot of the bed, his packs not too far away. Loghain shuts the door behind him, and Dannan’s growl grows fierce. A proper warning, then. Loghain freezes.

He remembered Adalla having the same protective streak in her. It was a staple of the mabari’s personality; Loghain admired their fierce loyalty greatly. He has seen them tear the arms from grown men before, and he is under no illusion that it couldn’t happen to him.

But an arm appears from beneath the furs and sheets, lands on Dannan’s back and scratches his fur. He settles almost immediately, falling silent. The arm disappears again.

When Padril finally speaks, his voice is soft and raspy, as if he hadn’t spoken in a while. “What do you want?”

Loghain’s posture relaxes, and he dares to move past the bedroll to stand at the end of the bed. He can _feel_ Dannan’s watchful gaze on him. “Anora wants to speak to us. She won’t tell me what it’s about until you’re there. Knowing our current situation, as well as my daughter, she'll want us to leave the city. Though, for what, I—“ He pauses as he looks around the room again, and he scowls, concerned. “Warden, how long have you been here?”

“Please don’t call me that,” The lump under the sheet croaks. “My name is _Padril_. I— I can’t go. I’m sorry. Please tell Anora I’m sorry.” He watches the lump shift, pull the sheets tighter and closer to himself. Loghain takes a few steps toward Padril’s side of the bed; he eyes Dannan, gauging how safe it is to approach. The dog does not move. “I— I can’t remember how long I’ve been here. I just—“ Padril’s voice quivers as he speaks, and Loghain struggles to hear him. “I can’t stop seeing them die.”

_Ah._

His scowl remains. He knew this feeling— how, months after the Orlesians had been run out of Ferelden, he kept seeing his mother. Pity makes a home in his gut, but how is he meant to comfort someone who hates him? “Padril,” He starts, his voice going soft and low. It’s been a long time since he’s tried to sound reassuring; he felt out of practice. Awkward, like an ill-fitting shirt. “You might not appreciate it, all things considered, but I still dream about the women and men I fought with in the rebellion.”

Loghain’s scowl softens— Padril doesn’t move, doesn’t respond. “It never gets any easier, you know. These things will stay with you for—“ He sucks in a deep breath, “ _years._ But laying around will make it worse.” There is still no response; and as much as he understands, it frustrates him. “However, if I need to drag you out to Anora myself, I _will_.”

And for a Maker-forbidden _second_ , he believes he may have to pick him up and carry him— it wasn’t an issue, the man looks lighter than most. But then he hears a quiet, resigned sigh; he watches as Padril sits up.

Zevran wasn’t wrong. He looks like he needs gentle; he looks exhausted, defeated, as if they hadn’t actually won and it were all over. Dark circles were under his eyes, his shoulders hunched. Padril presses a palm to his right eye and rubs. “Ok.” 

He reaches up to brush his ruddy-brown hair into place and blinks as if he’s disoriented. Loghain takes that as a sign to go to his side, a hand hovering near his elbow in case he needs help. The mabari watches.

Padril pushes him away as he slides out of bed— his push is weak, but Loghain bumps into the wall behind him as he steps away regardless. “I don’t… I don’t need help.” He insists.

“No?” Loghain watches him shuffle to the packs. It’s then that he realizes the elf is only wearing— judging by the size of it, at least— one of Zevran’s shirts, and he looks away. For _Padril’s_ sake. Dannan jumps down from the bed, nose to the floor where Loghain has walked. He clears his throat again. “Fine. You put on some proper clothes; I’ll, ah, wait for you outside.”

Padril watches Loghain awkwardly move past him, hands lingering at the buttons on his shirt. Dannan huffs, following the man for attention; he gives in, too, scratching the dog between the ears as he opens the door again. “Loghain?” Padril says, and he stops to glance at him. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

He purses his lips— he’s not sure how to respond. He remembers Maric pulling him out of the same dark hole— sitting in the palace library, his body numb. Maric’s comforting hand on his shoulder, a warm kiss to his cold cheek, coaxing him out— and he looks away. Instead, he says, “Do try to be quick,” He can’t tell what it is— disappointment, maybe?—, but Padril’s face drops. “We need to see what my daughter has in store for us.

Anora, Maker bless her, has been patient. It was, undoubtedly, different for her to have to wait on someone; not to say that she never did, but his daughter liked to get things _done_. There was little time to mess around when it came to her work.

Padril had pulled on his armour again, lacking anything that could make him particularly presentable in front of the Queen. Loghain did the same, his heavy silver armour now clean and dent-free. He felt so _exposed_ out of it, and he wondered if the Warden felt the same.

The elf keeps quiet as they walk; every so often, Loghain throws a glance his way. He still looks so sad, but he notices that he looks a little more alive now that he’s up and about. It reassures him, at least; he doesn’t expect him to bounce back immediately, but he’ll be alright with time. 

His daughter meets them in her private office; it is large, but simple. He avoids meeting her here, if he can; it reminds him too much of Maric. He remembers him, sitting where she now sits, their desk in front of a large, round-top stained glass widow. She even looks like him– their golden hair, their determined eyes. He’s proud, but part of him misses Maric dearly, and he doubts that will ever change.

A bookshelf lines the left wall, and a large painting of the Ferelden countryside dominates the right. A set of comfortable-looking leather chairs sit beneath it. Spread across the floor in front of the desk is a handmade rug Anora and Cailan had commissioned from the alienage elves. Loghain remembers the… _event_ well. Cailan’s advisors had protested, but they were both _stubborn_ , she and the boy.

By all accounts, it was gorgeous; made with wools of greens and reds and gold, it depicted Garahel’s battle against the Archdemon Andoral. Looking at it now, he was sure the boy would’ve laughed at him. 

Sitting at her desk, Anora cradles a teacup in her hands. She looks picture perfect, as always; the only sign that she was leading an entire nation through the aftermath of a Blight were the slight bags under her eyes. Noticeable only by him, he was sure– when it came to his daughter and her welfare, he had eagle-eyes. 

A smile slips onto his face as he sees her, and he makes a mental note to thank the Warden again for sparing his life. _A Mac Tir on the throne,_ he muses. He wonders what his father would’ve thought.

“I’m going to be blunt with you both.” Anora announces. Once more behind her is Ser Cauthrien; he catches her glancing towards her, curious. Loghain stands straighter, the familiar smile disappearing from his face. “The First Warden has arranged to send someone to lead the Wardens here. She’ll be arriving in Amaranthine any day now, and I need you two to ride there as her welcoming party.” She pauses to sip at her tea, steam billowing from the cup. “Her name is Madeline Charron.”

They protest immediately; Loghain catches Padril arm as he goes to step forward, cutting him off. “Charron is an Orlesian name, is it not? Do they take us for simpering fools?” He growls. “How do we know she’s trustworthy?”

His daughter lifts her cup, sips at it once more. She hums in agreement, then. “That _was_ my initial thought. I’ve never heard anything about the woman before, and who better to send to greet her than my father and the Hero of Ferelden? You’re both experienced, and you both have excellent judgements of character. You’ll be there to welcome her, but also to see what her intentions are.” 

“And how long do you want us stationed there?”

“A month, at least,” Anora answers. “You’ll be reporting back to me often–”

Padril’s fists ball up, his knuckles turning white. Before Loghain can stop him, Padril is speaking over them. “You said I wouldn’t have to do any more of this Warden shit.” He snaps. They both look at him, surprised; behind Anora, Cauthrien tenses, hand at her sword pommel. Pissing off the Queen of Ferelden wasn’t the wisest idea, but he was at his _limit_. “Why can’t you get someone else to do your spying for you? Like Leliana– she used to be a bard! And she spent the entire Blight travelling with me. She’s more than capable, way more than me–“

Anora has put her cup down, now, and she rounds the desk to stand in front him. She’s tall; only a little shorter than her father. She takes Padril’s rough, worn hands in her warm, soft ones, and she offers an apologetic smile. She’s wearing a green gown, today, rings adorning her fingers. Padril feels himself relax, even if it’s temporary; it’s hard to see her as Loghain’s daughter when she contrasts his cold, rough image. 

“Mahariel. If you do this one thing for me, I _swear_ that you will be left alone to do as you please. Even leave Ferelden, if you wish. And if the Wardens ask after you, I will send them away. You have done so much for us already, you deserve to have your wishes respected. But,” Anora gives his hands a gentle squeeze. “I beg you, please do this for me. I do not trust anyone more than I do you two.”

For a moment, Padril looks down at their hands. _Oooh,_ he hates these shems. Why couldn’t they… leave him alone? He peeks at Loghain, looking for guidance– for anything. He merely nods towards her, his arms folded, and Padril sighs. His hands pull away, and they drop, limp, to his sides. “I’ll go.” He concedes; what other choice did he have? And who was he to refuse the Queen of Ferelden?

Anora looks quite pleased with herself at the outcome, and she steps back. “I’m glad you agreed to do this for me, Mahariel. I promise you won’t regret it.” She offers another smile, and then moves to her desk again. “Now. The new Commander will be here soon, so time is of the essence. Your horses, rations and tents are already organized. You’ll need to leave before tonight– I’d prefer you to be there _before_ she is.”

Loghain nods again, looks to Padril– it seems, to him, as if he’s fallen silent once more, so he unfolds his arms. “We’ll be gone in a few hours.” He promises. “Will that be all, Anora?”

She considers them both with a small smile. “Only that I have the greatest belief you’ll do a wonderful job and wishes for a safe journey. That will be all, father.” She takes up her teacup once more.

He claps a hand to Padril’s shoulder, and it’s shrugged off. It spurs him into moving, at least, and the elf disappears into the palace beyond the office door. With one last parting smile, Loghain leaves his daughter and her knight to their duties, following the elf to prepare for the journey ahead.

***

It hardly takes them long to get ready. Before they both knew it, they’re on the road, three days into their three and a half day journey. The sun is setting as they pull their horses off-road, first glancing behind and then ahead of them to make sure no one is following. Dannan trots at their heels as they lead them through the woods— an hour later, they find a spot with enough space for them, and they begin to make camp.

They tie their steeds to nearby trees, and Padril pulls out his bow and adjusts the straps on his quiver and packs . He tells Loghain that he’s going to hunt for dinner instead of using the rations Anora had provided; he wants fresh meat. Loghain manages scrounge up enough tinder and kindling in the growing darkness. As Padril and Dannan disappear into the trees, he nurses their campfire until it’s roaring. 

He has no problem with Padril hunting alone; he’d been quiet during their travels, and he needed time to himself. After he pitches their small, animal-fur tents, he sinks down in front of his with a sigh. It’s been a while since he’s travelled like this, he thinks. Not since his Rebellion days.

It’s nice— there’s no guards or soldiers to interrupt the silence with their chatter or sparring. He can barely see the stars through the tree canopy, and it’s beautiful. He tries to recall the names of them— his father and mother taught him, he should know— but the only ones he can remember at this point are the ones used for navigating. Loghain sighs, prods at the fire with a nearby stick— sparks splutter into the air.

The silence starts to get to him, after a while. He can’t hear Padril. He can’t hear Dannan, not even while straining. Shouldn’t a mabari be making more noise while hunting?

Suddenly, he is _too_ aware of the darkness; instinctively, he reaches for his sword. _Anything_ could be in those woods— bandits, animals, darkspawn. He feels like something’s watching his movements, watching him sit there, tense and still. The metal of his sword is cool in his hand, but he is afraid he cannot move— his entire body is _frozen_.

Twigs snap not too far off to his left, and there’s rustling in the bushes. He can’t see it— it’s beyond the campfire’s light. His eyes dart around— Maker, he’s so exposed out here. He should’ve gone with Padril. And yet there he was, frozen in place, his brain screaming at his body because _something_ was coming for him in those trees. He tried to see whatever it was, but it was so… so dark. He could hear it. It was close, and he needed to move— move, _move—!_

It’s then that Dannan slips through the bushes, dark muzzle dripping with red. Padril follows, carrying _some_ kind of bloody package. 

Tension washes from Loghain’s body, and he heaves a sigh. His fingers go loose and he drops his sword on the ground beside him, despite the nagging feeling in the back of his brain. For now, he’s safe, he tells himself. Padril notices, though, and his eyebrows shoot up, curious. “Are you ok?”

His mouth is dry as he goes to speak. “Perfectly. What did you find?” He motions to what Padril’s carrying. 

“Deer meat.” He says, casually. Loghain organises the fire, lets the elf take over cooking. The smell of cooking meat fills their little spot, and Loghain waits, eager. 

Yet Padril is still quiet as he cooks. He fishes salt from one of his packs and seasons it, though it’s bare-bones. After a moment, he huffs. “Earlier— when you said you thought I hated you. I don’t.” He says, suddenly. “Hate you, I mean.”

Loghain shoots him a curious look. “/I/ never said I thought you hate me.” He points out. He’d assumed, though. “I merely said that my attempts at comfort were undoubtedly not appreciated. Or— something to that effect.” He waves his hand.

For the first time, Loghain watches as Padril’s cheeks go red and hot. It spreads to the tips of his ears and his neck. “I— you didn’t— say that at all?” He blinks. Loghain shakes his head. Despite himself, he finds himself struggling to keep the corners of his mouth from curling.

Padril looks away in embarrassment. “Uh… well. That’s— I mean, it— but— in that case, nevermind.” He says, quickly. He focused himself on cooking his prize, cheeks still hot.

For a split second, Loghain is tempted to push him to continue his thought. But it seems as if Padril has finished speaking for now— he goes quiet as he stops cooking and hands him his part of the meal. The elf tosses bits to Dannan between each bite. His eyes go everywhere other than Loghain.

He’s long abandoned all hope of hearing the rest of Padril’s thoughts when they retreat to their tents for the night. Loghain scoops his sword up from the dirt and fetches his shield— he stamps out the fire, plunging their little camp into darkness.

Loghain settles onto his bedroll, weapons behind him, staring up at the canvas ceiling of the tent. His head starts to turn on him again— he hears the leaves rustling and he thinks someone’s through the bushes, hears their horses stepping on twigs as they shuffle about and he thinks there’s even more assailants than he thought. There’s not a noise from the elf or the dog.

He feels his muscles grow tense, but when Padril speaks, and relief washes through him. “Loghain.” He calls. “I was going to say that I— I don’t hate you. Not for Ostagar, anyway.” There’s a heartbeat pause. “I know if it were me and my clan in the same position, I’d do the same.”

It’s Loghain’s turn to fall silent; it’s the first time someone’s tried to understand, outside of Howe’s _suspicious_ attempt at doing so. He lays there for a minute or two, uncomfortable. Finally, he finds his voice, but it’s not much. “Then I shall pray you never have to experience it.” When Padril does not respond, he closes his eyes and tries to push the memories of Ostagar out of mind. “Good night, Mahariel.” He calls back.

***

They make quick work of their camp and set off just as the sun begins to rise. Loghain is used to such lengthy rides, but he can tell Padril has begun to grow uncomfortable. “It’s not far now,” He reassures him, watching him squirm in his saddle from the corner of his eye.

And it isn’t, indeed. An hour or two goes by as they ride, and Vigil’s Keep slowly comes into view.  
The first red flag is the sky overhead. Dark, angry clouds hover above them and the Keep. A low, forceful hum builds in the back of Loghain’s skull, and as much as he tries to shake it off, he finds he cannot.

The second is smoke. Even from a distance, thick plumes pour from the rooftops. Padril sits up in his saddle, squints ahead. At the horses’ feet, Dannan begins to growl.

“Something’s wrong,” Loghain says. As they draw closer, he scowls. The hum in his head– it’s louder, now. “There’s no guards on the walls. Do you hear–”

Padril is reaching for his bow. “I do. It's darkspawn.” He spurs his horse into a gallop, and Loghain follows suite, scrambling for his sword. Dannan begins to sprint ahead. What are darkspawn doing _here_?! They should have all gone underground-

The smoke begins to grow thicker the closer they get. Padril notices them first– there are people running down the road to the keep. They seethem, and they scream for help; but it’s too late. Loghain watches as they collapse, arrows sprouting from their backs. Blood pools under their bodies.

He spots the ones responsible. Genlocks; they scream and cackle in response, lifting their weapons as in celebration.

The hum is overwhelming now, roaring in his ears. He looks at Padril, an arrow already knocked. The arrow flies ahead, catches one inbetween the eyes. _That_ gets their attention, and their eyes snap to them, snarling.

Loghain feels rage settle in his gut– how _dare_ they defile even more of Ferelden and its people! After everything they’d done to start rebuilding– he lifts his sword high in the air and _yells_ as loud as he can. It catches Padril off-guard, but soon enough he’s joining him, their voices echoing across the countryside, furious.

They get close enough to see the feral, yellow grins on their faces. Loghain swings his sword down in a hard arc; it will be _easy_ , he thinks, they’ll rid this place of these bastards. It is their job after all, and they do their job _well_ ; surprise is on their side.

They are not prepared for what lurks ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I wanted this chapter posted within the month and thankfully, I managed it! Just barely, haha. The ending's a bit of a copout, but this is the first time I've written 5+k in a very, VERY long time. Sorry for the length, I had a lot I wanted to achieve this chapter! It's kinda where we mostly start to seperate from "canon" (but it's my canon, so eat it, Gaider).
> 
> Lots of violence this chapter. Very, very sorry again. It'll probably happen next chapter, too (we're in Awakenings territory, now!). Thank you so much for reading/keeping up with me!


	5. awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief summary/rewrite of the beginning Awakenings.
> 
> The new Warden Commander is here. Darkspawn lurk in Amaranthine's shadows. Things prove too much for Padril to handle.

They collide with the darkspawn with a thunderous clash; metal-on-metal, metal-on-flesh, twangs of bows and shrieks of darkspawn. It pierces their ears, shakes them to the core. Adrenaline rushes through his body, and Padril feels like he’s back in Denerim months ago.

Padril takes one out with arrows, three shots in quick succession. Loghain leans in his saddle and lops the head off of one, crushes another under his steeds’ hooves. Dannan is as quick as lightning, leaping up to tear out the throat of the last genlock. The short, hideous monster gurgles, clawing at his throat. It collapses, dead in the dirt.

When everything seems to settle, Padril leaps down from his saddle. His boots make an uncomfortable squelch as he hits the blood-tinged mud. “Creators, how did this happen?” He looks down at the genlock his dog picked off—bald, skin mottled with greys and greens, teeth sharp and yellow. He remembers how these creatures are made and he shudders; Loghain casts him a curious glance as he drops down from the horse. “This is _bad_. They should’ve sensed them. Darkspawn _don’t_ arrange surprise attacks.”

Loghain uses his foot to roll over the closest genlock– dead eyes stare back up, almost right through him. “And yet they didn’t.” He muses, scowling. He adjusts his grip on his sword and unhooks his shield from his horse. "Come. Let's not leave the darkspawn room to settle in."

Padril lets him lead. They enter the walled village before the Keep itself– where the workers lived, he hazards a guess. Bodies lie on the ground, face down and unmoving. A few are hanging from the walls, insides torn out. Loghain lifts his shield as they move, alert; Padril keeps an arrow knocked. 

Vigil’s Keep is quiet. The only real noise comes from the gentle pitter-patter of rain against the buildings.

But the hum is so _loud_ here, it continues to remind Padril of the siege of Denerim. He can’t tell how many there are, and if he’s being honest, he doesn’t _want_ to know. 

They mutter to one another as they move, telling eachother if it's safe or not. They check houses and small alleys—there are few survivors, thankful but far too injured to help out. They’re ordered to collect at the gate, and Padril watches them hobble away with a lump in his throat.

Together they climb the stone stairs littered with the dead. Bodies remain draped over the steps, faces locked in terror. He catches a glimpse of what he assumes is Warden regalia—blue and silver smeared with red, and he can’t help but cringe.

A violent, loud crackling comes from behind a set of large wooden gates loom ahead. They shoot a glance at each other. A darkspawn scream pierces the air, and the twang of bows follow soon after. Someone yells in frustration, pain, anger. 

Padril and Loghain leap for the gates, flinging themselves hard against the wood.

On the stairs at the mouth of the keep itself are three armoured figures, edging backwards. A taller knight in silver-and-maroon armour is halfway down the steps fighting off a Hurlock. The monster towers over them, snarling and screaming, wielding a greatsword that could cleave a grown man in half. 

The other two, perched at the top of the stairs, look unsure about exactly where they're meant to fire. Their leader ducks and weaves from the greatsword as best they can, given the stairs.

Loghain and Padril are about to join the fray when the figure takes a step backwards. Their foot misses the step behind them, and then they’re slipping. Padril feels his breath catch in his throat, and he tenses, expecting to see them cave the back of their helmet in on the stone; expecting the Hurlock’s greatsword to come swinging after them. 

The darkspawn roars, raises its sword above its head and, _Creators, how did this happen–_

He doesn’t expect Loghain to move so fast; he vaults up the stairs, two at a time, and then his hand is at the Hurlock’s shoulder. He thrusts his arm hard towards its back, and the tip of his sword sprouts out of its chest. The person underneath them rolls as the greatsword– and the body– clatters to the ground.

Loghain offers them a hand, and they take it; they make quick work of the remaining darkspawn. 

The figure leading the group turns to them, then. They drop their sword and shield at their feet, peel off the griffin-winged helm and that joins the ground, too. She offers an exhausted smile. Her face is tired and glistens with sweat; her dark hair comes below her jaw, braided in places. Her fringe sticks to her damp skin.

“Thank the Maker you came when you did,” The two soldiers behind her hurry to join them, but remain silent and alert, bows strung and arrows nocked. “The darkspawn—they ambushed the Wardens. I didn’t know they were capable of such a thing.” She licks her lips, eyes darting around as if looking for more darkspawn. She sounds like she still needs to catch her breath. “No one was prepared. I—“ 

The woman blinks, beads of sweat rolling down her cheek. Padril watches the realization dawn on her face. “It’s you. The Hero of Ferelden. Warden Mahariel, I— I was meant to watch for you on the roads, but I got stuck here before I could leave. My name is Mhairi.” 

Her eyes wander to Loghain, and she sucks in a sharp, almost _angry_ breath. “And that means _you’re_ –“

“Loghain Mac Tir, yes. Not that that means much these days, if it ever did; you’ve done a good job here, Warden.” Padril is thankful he’s taken over the talking, even if it makes him feel a little guilty. Someone _recognized_ him. That was so alien; he was used to being stared at for being Dalish, not for… things he’d done.

Almost a split second after he finishes addressing Mhairi, he kicks into General mode. “You two!” He barks. “Join the others at the gates! Round up any other survivors we’ve missed; keep them safe!” With a nod from Mhairi, they dart off, disappearing from view.

Padril looks down to his dog, smiles as he ruffles his ears. “You go with them, buddy. You’ll keep them safe, right?” The mabari wiggles his stump-tail and barks. “Good dog.” Padril coos– Dannan bolts without complaint.

They stand there for a moment, breathing in the smoke and blood in the air. Mhairi lifts her chin to Padril. “I’ve yet to take the Joining, actually. I’m a recruit; after what happened at Ostagar, what you and your companions did– I knew I had to join. It’s an honour,” Padril watches her gaze shift to Loghain. “to meet you both. With you here, we stand a chance.”

“Thank us when we’ve actually saved everyone,” Padril said, cutting in. Loghain takes a moment to bend down, study the Hurlock on the ground. “I promise you, we’ll get as many people out of here as possible.” But the state of it all– the overwhelming hum of the darkspawn in his head– it’s a lot, and it paints a grim picture. His stomach sinks at the thought of it. "If you wait at the gates for us, we'll--"

_Why can’t it ever be easy?_

Mhairi frowns as he speaks, and she cuts in. “Forgive me for being so bold, Hero,” He wishes she’d stop calling him that. “But I have friends in there. People I _need_ to make sure are safe. I need to come with you; I won’t flee to safety while they’re in danger.”

Padril and Loghain glance at eachother, and then it’s Loghain’s turn to speak again. He stands from his crouched position with a quiet, almost inaudible grunt. “Let’s not give them any more time to kill the innocent, then.”

\---

Neither of them have ever been to Vigil’s Keep before.

Mhairi leads the charge, though it’s often less of a charge and more of a wade through waist-deep mud. And the mud is darkspawn. Lots and lots of darkspawn. 

They are littered through the keep, both live and dead alike. Padril finds he has to start plucking his arrows from corpses much sooner than he’s comfortable with.

A feeling of wrongness hangs over his head like a black cloud where-ever he walks. Something is _off_ about it all. Creators be damned, he’ll find out what it is, even if he’d never intended on coming here in the first place.

They hit a stretch of hall with several offshoot rooms; as soon as they crack open the door, darkspawn begin to swarm out. Mhairi and Loghain plough ahead, and Padril posts himself at the end of the hall they came through. 

They hardly get a chance to breathe once it’s done. Someone screams behind the door at the end of the hall, full of rage and bloodlust.

An axe comes down and sinks into something meaty as they peek into the room. There’s a brief, brilliant flash of light, and heat flies across the room, burning several darkspawn to a crisp. They curl up as they die, and it reminds Padril of spiders.

All grows quiet until a loud, boisterous laugh rocks him. There, leaning over the lifted foundation railing, is Oghren. He grins at Padril, face and body sprayed with thick, dark ichor. Behind him, a blonde man in a brown-and-blue coat with feathered shoulders blows on his hands as if they're hot. 

“Warden!” Oghren roars, and he’s already yanking his axe out from the corpse. “By th’ stone– it really is you! Good to see you! And here I thought it was gonna be all borin’ up here!”

He approaches him, and clamps his thick arms around Padril’s waist. It shocks him, but he manages to squirm down to hug him properly. The shock subsides, and warmth spreads through his chest. 

“Oghren!” He gives him a tight squeeze. It’s been two, bordering on three weeks since he last saw the dwarf, but it feels like eternity. “I don’t have enough words to describe how _glad_ I am to have you–“

Mhairi cuts him off before he can say much else. “You know these two?” She sounds almost incredulous when she says it.

“Just the dwarf, unfortunately.” Loghain takes the change of pace to lean against a nearby cabinet. He slips off his gauntlets to wipe his forehead with the back of a gloved hand. 

The room they’re in looks almost like storage, except that it’s largely empty; a few crates have been stacked in a corner not too far from Loghain. To their right, past the railings Oghren came from, are a set of stairs that disappear up to… Maker knew what. Probably the ramparts. “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting–“

The blonde human lifts his hands as if surrendering, and he gives a nervous chuckle. Padril lets go of Oghren to face him; he’s shorter than Loghain, and a golden ring dangles from his left ear. “Me? Oh-ho, uh– I’m no one. Really!"

Mhairi’s eyes narrow at him. “I met these two about an hour before the darkspawn attacked. Templars had brought the mage–“

“Hey! I have a name, you know. Uh... it’s Anders.”

“—had brought _Anders_ to the Keep for the evening. I'd heard they were only meant to stop for a few hours. Where are they now?” Her tone is almost accusatory, and Padril watches her hand tighten on the hilt.

Anders stands up straighter, a scowl on his brow. “ _I_ didn’t kill them, if that’s what you’re asking. I mean– don’t get me wrong, I’m not shedding tears over it, but I didn’t! The darkspawn got them. One moment there we are, and they’re saying ‘this is your last chance, Anders’, and the next they’ve got swords in their bellies.” He shrugs, “Do I look like I could impale a couple of Templars on swords by myself?”

Padril cast a glance at Mhairi. She looks unsatisfied, but at least she’s stopped glaring daggers at the mage. Loghain looks uninterested in what they have to say; he's moving from his perch to look at the darkspawn bodies on the ground. 

“Uh, no. You don’t.” Padril agrees, and he pats his leather glove-covered hand to Mhairi’s metal pauldron. “I think he’s alright, Mhairi. If you want, we could take him with us. Y’know, to keep an eye on him.”

“See? He thinks I’m alright!”

Oghren _groaned_. “We’re keepin’ the guy in the skirt? Eugh.”

Anders stuck his tongue out at the dwarf. “As if you’re any better, Mr. ‘I’m Every Stereotype About Dwarves, Ever’. At least I don’t smell like I slept in a brewery--”

To the side, Loghain grumbles and shakes his head.

Instead of indulging them, Padril slings his bow over his shoulder. He starts towards the stairs and the group follows; Loghain takes point after him, and Anders settles at the back of the group. 

“ _Super_ awesome to see we’re all well-acquainted," Padril hits the top of the stairs and grabs the cool, metal doorknob. Rain is hammering against the door and roof, now. “But we’ve got work to do, so let’s stop arguing and—“

Loghain is immediately at his side, hand clamping down on his on the doorknob. He jams his foot in front of the door, boot stopping it from opening any wider— Padril feels Oghren bump straight into him, with a soft grunt. 

“Bloody nug-humpers, what’re you doing, Loghain?!”

He lifts his finger and shushes him. Worry and frustration line his face— Mhairi and Anders have fallen silent behind them. “Do you hear that?” He asks.

Padril strains. He _thinks_ he can hear it; someone’s talking beyond the door, but the rain is too loud. The elf shakes his head. _What good are these pointed ears if I can’t hear better with them?!_

“Someone was yelling.” Loghain whispers. “Something is out there.”

He lets his foot move away from the door and he slips outside. Padril and Anders glide up onto the ramparts; even with the cover of the rain, Oghren’s footsteps are _heavy_. Padril cringes with each rattle of his armour.

The elf quickens his step and overtakes Loghain halfway to the corner. He presses his hand to his breastplate to stop him and shakes his head. He points at himself, and then up to the end of the ramparts.

_Stay here. I’ll scout ahead._

And he does. The rain muffles his footsteps, makes it easier to move. He places his steps perfectly, footing sure. Padril peers around the corner, squinting and blinking rain out of his eyes.

There’s a grizzled man in silver armour kneeling on the ground. A darkspawn has his fist tight in his grey hair, pulling his head back, a sword to his throat. Another blade-- he imagines it's the human's-- lies not too far behind them.

There’s a bigger Hurlock only a few feet away; it’s mouth is moving, but Padril can barely hear it. A curved sword with jagged, almost toothed blade hangs at its hip, and it carries a round, wooden shield on its back. Tattered, rusted chainmail hangs from its body, and an old purple cloth is wrapped around its neck like a scarf. Six shrouded, tall figures lurk beyond at the other end of the ramparts.

Padril doesn’t realize it until it’s too late. The darkspawn is backing someone up to the edge; a peel of thunder rolls across the skies, and he catches the soldier’s sobbing between it. The soldier’s feet scuff the edge of the walls, and they teeter precariously. 

The darkspawn’s voice is clear, now, raspy and low. It sends shivers down his spine, and Padril reaches for the daggers hooked at his belt.

“It has ended just as He foretold!”

With a hard kick, the soldier falls; their scream echoes past the rain and thunder. Padril can see it in his head now: the body, crushed and crumpled against rock and ground.

Padril is about to yell over his shoulder for his companions when the voice rings out again. “We have visitors.” It growls, and it turns towards him. He freezes, but the man on his knees grows alarmed, struggles— Padril watches as the sword presses into his neck, daring to draw blood. “Show itself to us. We know it is The One The Father Wants.”

He swallows. He wants to yell, to rid the world of this _abomination_ , but his legs feel cemented in place. It knows him. It _knows_ him.

Loghain is behind him, then, clapping his hand to his shoulder. He almost leaps out of his skin— he glances to him, eyes wide. Whether Loghain’s shaken by the darkspawn, real and talking before them, he can't tell. His face remains as still as stone.

“You’ve made a mistake coming here, monster. Your kind will pay for what they’ve done to Ferelden.” 

The darkspawn sneers and steps forward; he draws his weapons. “Foolish. Leave the elf,” It orders. Padril feels his chest tighten— it’s hard to breathe. “We take it alive. The rest may die.”

The darkspawn on his right rush at them, screaming and snarling. They’re lankier, this time– tall even when hunched over, all sharp teeth and claws and feral grins. 

Oghren bowls past them, heads straight for the talking one– he roars, bloodthirsty and vicious, his axe trailing behind him. The darkspawn holding the other man captive lets go of him to fight, and the man scrambles back to grab his sword.

When Oghren sees the Shriek, though, he stops and twists– his axe swings in an arc, and he cleaves it in two, from mid-chest to skull. Mhairi joins him in the fray, and before Padril even knows it, Loghain is sprinting past them all.

Padril follows without hesitation, his legs no longer cemented in place. He ducks and weaves under swords and shields and then there he is, side-by-side with Loghain.

They waste no time. The darkspawn’s sword crashes into his shield, and Padril dives for his back. They struggle, break apart and dance around eachother; Padril catches it in the back of its legs. Loghain stabs forward to drive the tip of his sword through its shoulder. They work together to try and throw it off balance, and for a moment it works.

In turn, it slams its shield into Padril’s chest and face. He twists, narrowly avoids his nose ramming straight into his skull. It shows no signs of slowing down, despite the gashes in its armour and skin, despite their hard work.

Flashes of blue light up the ramparts as Padril slips behind and around them. He hears Anders’ voice yell out to him– “Warden! Watch out!” The elf ducks, crouching low, and his head spins as a blade swings over him. 

He kicks out, catches the Shriek’s leg, and it topples onto wet stone, screaming.

He shoots Anders a thankful glance before he dives forward. He jams a dagger straight up beneath its jaw, and hot, dark ichor sprays onto his hands. The Shriek twitches as it dies– he’s gripping his blades so tight he can't feel his fingers. 

Padril yanks his arms back and gasps, takes a moment to look around. Oghren, Mhairi and the soldier they’d rescued are working together on a small group of three. Anders is not too far away, lightning shooting from his fingertips. Another body joins the ones already littering the ground. 

They all seem unharmed.

By his side, Loghain gives a shout; his head whips around, and only catches the sight of the enemy’s sword sliding out of the armour at his knee. They’re close to the edge of the wall, now, where the monster had kicked the soldier to their doom.

It tries its hardest to lift its shield as Loghain advances, but it’s bleeding heavily at the shoulder. Loghain must’ve opened the wound more.

It’s over in seconds once the darkspawn's shield drops. Loghain swings his shield at its sword-arm, and it clatters to the ground. His blade finds purchase near the top of its neck. The head falls onto the rampart, and Padril watches the body sway and tumble off the edge. 

Loghain groans, collapses against the rampart wall. He wipes blood and rain from his face, brushes soggy hair from his forehead. 

The other darkspawn are killed, and the ramparts fall silent. Even the hum is gone, now.

Padril lays there on top of the Shriek for longer than he intends to. It doesn’t help that Oghren and Anders join him to sit on the stone floor, panting for air, soaked with rain and ichor. 

“I got water in my blasted boots,” The dwarf grumbles, pulling one off to shake pink-tinged water out of it. “Heh. That’s th’ one thing I miss about Orzammar, y’know. Lack of rain.” 

He nods. “I get what you mean.” He pushes himself off the body and slips his daggers back into the sheathes at his belt. 

Mhairi passes them to peer off the edge where the darkspawn had fallen. “I’d go mad with all of that stone. Isn’t it unbearably hot down there?” She squints into the distance– the rain and the dark clouds make it hard to see, but confusion flickers on her face.

“Like you’re trapped under one of your ancestors’ sweaty armpits, yeah.” Oghren chuckles, and Anders’ nose scrunches.

“Are you _always_ this... colourful?”

The answer comes from Oghren and Loghain both; one amused, one tinged with distaste. 

“Yes.”

The grey-haired man, standing not too far away, catches hiweye. He’d been so quiet, Padril had almost forgotten he was there. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to you sooner. I’m Padril.”

“What matters is that you got here at all. I was beginning to think Vigil’s Keep was doomed; thank you.” Before he realizes who he _is_ , the man is offering a grateful smile. The corners of his blue eyes wrinkle pleasantly. “I’m Varel. Seneschal Varel.”

Padril can hardly respond– at the ramparts, Mhairi grabs Loghain’s arm in shock. She pulls back, though, composes herself when she realizes everyone’s eyes were on her. “Someone’s at the gates!” She points off into the rain. “I can see a small group of torches!”

Loghain twists around, and Padril gets up to join them; Oghren, Varel and Anders follow suite. “I see it, too,” He says. For once, Padril can see it as well. There’s a blurred, flickering smear of orange and red at the gates, shifting and moving. “I can’t sense any more darkspawn. Not immediately. It might be reinforcements.”

“From who?” Padril shakes his head, “ _We_ didn’t send for anyone.”

He stands straighter, starts hobbling for the door they came from. “I’d imagine it’s probably the new Warden Commander.” He says, and the disgust is still in his voice; like he’s eaten something that’s put a bad taste in his mouth. “We should be down there immediately. I don’t want her taking over the place while we linger about.”

Anders almost pouts. Padril’s body aches with tiredness, and he’s cold and wet– but the mage in dripping robes was a _sight_ , and he cracks a smile. “Bugger. We can’t even sit for one moment?” He jokes, and shrugs.

“No.” Loghain answers, and with little else to say, he begins the struggle down the steps.

\---

A small group has gathered beneath the gates of Vigil’s Keep. The rain still hammers down upon them as Loghain leads. His teeth grit as they walk.

Ahead, new horses have joined theirs; four more, in fact. Padril spots their owners amongst the group of the Keep’s survivors. Two tend to the wounded, while two more chat together, facing the keep. One, Padril notices, is a woman in armoured Grey Warden robes. She leans slightly on a twisted, black staff.

She spots them first. “Hail!” She calls, lifting a hand. Varel lifts his in greeting; no one else speaks. They’re within a few feet of eachother when she catches Loghain’s gaze. 

A broad grin stretches across her face. “Ah, we were told we should expect a welcoming party. I did not expect it to be this size. I am flattered!”

There was no mistaking it– this was Madeline Charron. Her dark hair is up in a tight, braided bun. There’s a heavy, old scar across her face; it starts from her innermost right eyebrow, arches down and across her nose, breaks up the left corner of her lips. She has to only be a few years younger than Loghain; her hair is greying at the the temples, and she has soft lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes.

“Don’t be.” The elf looks at Loghain– it’s incredible, he thinks, how blunt and expressionless he can remain. “The Queen of Ferelden wanted us here to greet you; it’s merely courtesy. We’ll be stationed here while you get your bearings, as well. I must say; your arrival was… conveniently timed.” 

Padril tries to imagine himself speaking with such authority and confidence and-- no, he can't do it. He wonders if Loghain's attitude will cause trouble, and part of him is tempted to stop him from talking all together.

Madeline’s eyebrows rise. “It is a shame we could not be here sooner. Where is the seneschal? Did he survive the attack?” 

Varel steps forward, only a foot or two ahead of Loghain. “I did, Commander. It’s an honour; my name is Varel. I’ll be taking care of the day-to-day matters of the keep for you, among other things, if you need.”

“Very good. I look forward to working with you.” She hums, her gaze trailing over them all. She goes from Varel, to Anders, Oghren, Mhairi, and then she lands on Padril and Loghain. “I have heard _stories_ about you, Mac Tir. You seem to live up to your reputation.”

“I’m sure.”

As soon as she looks back at Padril, his heart leaps into his throat; she has a confident, intimidating air about her. Dull blue eyes seem to bore into his soul, and he finds himself looking away. 

“And if this is Loghain, then _you_ must be Mahariel. I must admit, I thought you would be different. Taller, perhaps.”

“Sorry to disappoint so soon,” He all but squeaks. He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know there was an Accepted Grey Warden Height. I wouldn’t have joined if I’d been told.”

Madeline laughs. “Well, considering, I would be certain that they would not protest too much otherwise, yes? You stopped the Blight– it is hardly as if they could kick you out, now.”

 _Or ever,_ Padril thinks. The Joining was… terribly permanent. 

“Your companions,” She starts, again. “Wardens as well, I take it?”

“Lookin’ to be,” Oghren says, closer to the back of the group. “I’ve been travelling with Mahariel for too long, now. May as well just officially join, y’know? So, gimme th’ cup! I’ll gargle ‘n spit!”

Loghain shakes his head and sighs– he pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re not meant to spit, Oghren.”

“Heh. That’s what I always say.”

At least six seperate groans rise from the crowd around them, including Loghain. 

“I’m also a recruit,” Mhairi speaks up; she has her helmet tucked under her arm. “I was meant to take my Joining as soon as you arrived, but… I’m _more_ than happy to wait to lend a hand with cleaning up the Keep.”

“No need. The Joining will not take too long. We will get rid of any lurking darkspawn and then hunt down any survivors. We’ll inspect the damage afterwards.” Madeline decides

She twists on her heel, gives a few orders to her companions and the survivors they’d rounded up before. Anders is about to slip away as everyone starts to part– but Varel grabs his arm, draws Madeline’s attention.

“I was _wondering_ where you’d gotten to. Commander! This one is an apostate. He was brought here by–“

“Templars,” Anders cuts in, before Varel can finish. The old man frowns at him. “And before you say it, _no_ , I didn’t kill them. The darkspawn got them. It was just awful; lots of screaming, lots of blood. Anyway, I’d like to get going, if it’s alright by you; I have places to go, people to see, I’m sure you know the rest.”

Madeline frowns, a hint of apology on her face. “Now, you know I can’t do that. We’ll need to turn you back to the Templars–“

Padril hasn’t wandered far by this point. In fact, he was walking side-by-side with Loghain and Oghren; Mhairi had abandoned them for her companions. As soon as he hears Anders’ voice, though, Padril stops in place. 

With a quick apology to his friends, the elf turns back and makes a short sprint to them. “Wait! Hang on!” He huffs, “Anders was a great help before; I’d be a head shorter if it weren’t for him. I don’t think we should hand him back to the Circle.”

“Oh? And what do you suggest we do with him?”

He blinks, stunned that she’d even ask him– he honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead. _Let Anders go_ was his immediate thought, but what good would that do? Templars would find him again. 

“Uh– if he’s alright with it, I was thinking we could conscript him into the Wardens.” The idea doesn’t give him the greatest feeling in the world, considering, but what else could he do? 

Anders looks almost stunned. “Me? A Grey Warden?” He wrings his hands, “I mean… I don’t see why not. No Templars, a lifetime of killing darkspawn– how bad could it be?” His chuckle is nervous; as nervous as Padril was about it, it seemed.

Madeline has already started walking to get her horse, however, leaving them together in the rain. “If you are sure, Mahariel,” She says. Padril can’t hear any hint of distaste for the idea, so his shoulders drop and he lets out a relieved sigh. “We had best get prepared. Meet us in the throne room in two hours; we will begin then!”

It’s only them, then. Anders looks at him in awe, his mouth open in a small ‘o’– his jaw shuts, then, and he smiles. He grabs Padril’s hands, shakes them. It’s funny– Anders’ hands are rough and worn, the exact opposite of what he expected from a Circle mage. 

“I promise I won’t let you down, Warden.” He says. “Thank you for this!”

He shakes his head quickly, struggling to speak. “It– it’s nothing, Anders. Don’t worry. I saw what the Circle was like– uh, granted, that _was_ in the middle of an abomination infestation. But I can hardly leave anyone in there when there’s a chance to set them free, you know? I couldn’t just… let you go back to that… mess.”

“It’s not nothing,” Anders insists. “ _Thank you._ ”

From where he’d left them, Oghren and Loghain squirm, impatient. “Oi!” Oghren finally shouts across the yard. “Padril! We’re gonna leave your ass out in th’ rain if you’re not quick about it!”

Padril worms one of his hands out of Anders’ warm ones to wave a dismissively at him. “You’re welcome. Listen, you don’t need to promise me anything. You’re gonna make a great Warden, I know it.” He says, and his voice is so sure, so full of hope that Anders smiles back. 

“Come on. I’ll help you prepare.” Padril says, and he lets his hands slip from the mages’, only to grab him by the wrist and pull him along.

_It’s been a while since anyone was this kind to him._

\---

The Joining goes by fast. It’s almost a blur; Padril watches Mhairi’s body drop and convulse, foam at the corners of her mouth. She dies, and they trap the darkspawn blood in two amulets for Oghren and Anders.

Padril retreats to his room afterwards and cries long and hard for her. He prays to Falon’Din for a safe trip to the Beyond-- if that’s even _where_ the humans go. He’s not one for religion, but he’ll make an exception for Mhairi. He thanks the Evanuris for Oghren and Anders’ lives, and for Loghain’s, too.

Three months pass. Madeline settles nicely into the role of Warden Commander and Arl of Amaranthine. Loghain never warms up to her, and Padril hardly blames him. He helped to end the Orlesian occupation, and he doubts it’s difficult to see her as anything but a threat, a subtle reminder of what has or could happen.

Both Padril and Loghain take patrols around Amaranthine; they don’t go out with Madeline and the others, but they take a small group of Warden recruits they’ve gathered over the months and make sure the roads are safe. It gives them time to think, a chance to talk. 

Padril finds himself easing up to him when they’re not in danger. it’s easy enough to forget what he’s done when there are swords and arrows being thrown your way, after all.

Still, nothing feels right in Vigil’s Keep. He feels stagnant here, like he’s doing nothing and people are _dying_ because of it. _It’s fine,_ Loghain tells him, _The Blight is over and Thedas is fine_. But he still feels guilty, and he can't quite put his finger on what it is, exactly. 

Madeline, Oghren and Anders come back from their adventures with taller tales each time; of haunted towns, of the broodmothers beneath Knotwood Hills. 

It weighs on him; he swears by the Creators they say they see more and more darkspawn each time they go out. He starts thinking more on the Withered, and dread fills his stomach each time. He isn’t sure who the Father is and he’s not sure he wants to stick around to find out.

He wakes up one night drenched in sweat, anxiety flooding his chest. He struggles to breathe, and it is so, _so_ cold. His room is silent as he struggles to sit up.

His room is plain; wood floors and stone walls, with a singular glass window covered with iron lattice set into the east wall. His bed presses against the east wall, an old chest at its foot. At the north wall sits an unused writing desk, and a large, dark armoire dominates the south. On the west wall is the door, large and imposing, but shut. The shadows shift uncomfortably here, keeping his anxiety alive and warm.

_That’s it. I can’t do this anymore._

He leaps from his bed with light footing. He pulls his armour on over his plainclothes, and he slips his daggers onto his belt, his bow and quiver on his back. Boots. Bags– he takes a moment to stuff whatever items and trinkets he’s acquired the last three moments into them. He retrieves gold he’s hidden in the armoire. 

Padril glances about the room; he can’t _think_ of anything else he’ll need, but he probably will once he’s hours away from the fucking keep and people are looking for him–

He shakes his head and hurries out of his room, making sure to keep as quiet as possible.

The halls are empty this hour of night; he knows guards will be patrolling, only fewer than usual. They’ll be on the ramparts. _There’s no point in trying to hide from them_ , he thinks. _By the time they spot me, I’ll be riding away from this whole fucking nightmare._

He passes Loghain’s door, only a few steps down the hall from his, and he barely gives it a glance. Padril continues down, quick and quiet–

And then he slows down. He stops, almost five metres from the door; his back is to it, his hands gripping the straps of his pack.

_Creators be damned, he was going to bring that stupid shem, wasn’t he?_

He was.

He slips into Loghain’s room, shuts the door behind him. “Loghain,” He whispers. He’s never been in this room before– it’s similar to his, but Loghain has rearranged it in a particular way that makes it feel different. His sword and shield rest next to his bed.

“Loghain!” Padril says, louder this time.

The man stirs slowly. Padril can see his eyes flutter open; Loghain blinks slowly at him, tired and confused. He jerks back, suddenly, into the head of his bed, and reaches for his sword. 

“Wait!” Padril exclaims. “Wait, wait, it’s me! It’s me– it’s Padril, what are you doing?!”

Loghain doesn’t seem to realize. He pauses, lifts a hand to wipe sleep from his eyes. “Oh, Maker,” He hisses, drops his sword to the ground with an unfortunately loud clatter. “Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?!”

“The thing where– your eyes were– nevermind. Don’t worry.” Loghain rubs his face again. His voice is deep and raspy, tired. “What are you doing up at this time of night? And– why are you in my room?”

Padril lifts a finger to his lips to try and quieten him. “Shh, shh. We’ve got to go.” He insists, “We’re leaving right now.”

He watches confusion spread across his face, and Padril pulls away from the bed to start packing for him. “What? Why? What’s wrong? Padril, would you– would you slow down? What is the _matter_?”

The elf hesitates in the middle of stuffing rolled up maps into one of Loghain’s old bags. He turns back to him, sighs, and sits next to him on his bed. Like Padril’s, it’s much harder– too used to sleeping on the ground while travelling, soft beds were difficult to deal with. 

“I don’t want to be here anymore. I keep thinking about the darkspawn– the talking one. About what it said to me. It scares me. And I… want to see if I can find my clan again. My family. Maybe try to find my dad?” He rubs the back of his neck after a moment. “You don’t have to come with. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

He feels Loghain’s blue eyes studying him, and for a long moment, it’s quiet. He thinks he’ll have to go on his own after all– it’ll be the first time for him, just him and Dannan. The idea is… strange. But then Loghain pulls back his sheets and sits with him. 

“And you’re leaving tonight?” Loghain starts. “I’ll go where-ever you go. I’m sure you want to keep an eye on me, anyway; I _do_ owe you my life, either way.”

“As soon as I can, yes.” Padril snorts, then. “Well, it’s hardly that. I’m just–“

“– Used to travelling with someone. I understand.” He nods, rests his hand on his shoulder. The smile he offers is sleepy and lopsided, almost; he’s thankful it’s dark. His cheeks are warm, and he’s certain it would’ve shown. Padril looks away quickly. “Give me a moment. I’ll gather my things and write a letter to the Warden Commander and Anora.”

The elf slips back out into the hallway to leave him to his business. It takes Loghain no more than ten minutes to follow, and together they make their way to the kennels to fetch Dannan, and then to the stables. 

Loghain murmurs to Padril as he asks him about his armour– it’s in his pack, he says, and he won’t wear it until they’re out on the road. _So they don’t wake up half the keep,_ and the faintest smirk dances on his face as he says it. Instead, he wears a plain, cream cloth shirt, a leather vest, bracers and boots. For once, Padril wears more armoured than him.

They find the horses they rode to Amaranthine on; Loghain’s dark bay mare, Padril’s red roan. They manage to light a lamp left in the stables, and they’re no longer stumbling about as they try to bridle and saddle them.

Together, they lead the horses out into the courtyard. Both of them wear dark-blue cloaks, clasped at the chest with silver griffons; Padril lifts his hood as they swing up onto their mounts. He looks up to the ramparts of the Keep itself– a pair of orange lamps cut through the night mist, still and watching.

“Are you ready?” Loghain asks, glancing back at Padril.

“I am.”

They urge their horses into a trot. Padril looks back once they pass under the gates; one lamp has started to move away from the other.

“Where was your father, again?” Loghain asks. Padril tears his gaze away from the Keep to look at Loghain.

“I didn’t say, sorry. I remember my aunt saying he was from Nevarra. I think– I mean, we could try Cumberland. Last I heard of my _clan_ , were on their way to the Free Marches.”

Loghain hums and then clicks his tongue. “We’ll need to stop off in Amaranthine, in which case. It’s quite a journey from here to Nevarra.” It doesn’t seem to phase him. Below them, Dannan keeps pace, disappearing off-road to sniff... well, _whatever_ it was he was sniffing.

“Thank you for coming with me.” Padril says, quietly.

He almost doesn’t catch it, but Loghain twists in his saddle to face him and offers a small smile. “Of course. Even if you’d gone without me, I think I would’ve chased after _you_ before long. The Orlesian would have driven me up the wall.” He chuckles.

They fall silent as Vigil’s Keep drops further and further behind them. Only once more does Padril look back, and he frowns as he does so; joining the lone lantern, now, are several more. A blob of orange has amassed on the ramparts, curious. 

He presses his legs into his steed, and it breaks out into a gallop; he cannot be rid of this place soon enough.

He wants to go _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I am SO sorry I took so long to write this (this seems to be a common end note for me, lmao). I struggled a lot with how to deal with so much combat-- especially between, like, 7 Actual Characters, lmao. But it'll have to do!
> 
> I'm excited to dive into the next chapters! They'll be 100% brand new story, so I'm SUPER nervous but super keen! I hope y'all are, too!


	6. of home and other memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on the road again: after meeting new faces, loghain and padril have a heart to heart.

The plan was simple. 

To travel from Amaranthine to Highever would only be a few days’ time on horseback. They'd catch a ship to Cumberland, start the search there. Highever was still rebuilding from Howe’s attack, but the port was still intact last Loghain had heard. He imagined all they’d need to do is grease a few palms with sovereigns and they’d be on their way.

The Pilgrim’s Path is quiet and their travel goes uninterrupted. They spend a day in Amaranthine trying to keep to themselves, save for when they hunt down supplies.

They leave the city while the sun is still rising, with traders setting up their market booths at street corners and between alleyways. No one pays them much mind, and he’s thankful for it. He hasn’t even seen any Wardens searching for them, thank the Maker. 

Well– the plan _was_ simple, but it is _never_ that easy.

Loghain leads them along the North Road; they pass travelling merchants and families and small groups of soldiers patrolling the road. Still no Wardens in sight. About two days pass as they travel along the road to Highever, and company begins to grow thin. Padril’s mabari sticks close to the horses as they move.

There are fields all around them; the hills are dotted with trees and small homes. It’s been a long, long time since he’s been this side of Ferelden; they pass a farmer and his mabari herding sheep up a hill, and warmth blooms in Loghain’s heart. At least _some_ people’s lives weren't disturbed by the Blight. By his actions. 

Still, eople don’t seem to recognise or pay much attention to them out here and it reassures him somewhat. At least there wouldn’t be any angry folk wanting to skin him alive for… _misaligned priorities._

The sun is low in the sky when Padril becomes distracted. He peers off into the encroaching darkness, his hand lifting to his brow to shield his eyes from the setting sun. 

Loghain doesn’t realize his horse has slowed to a halt, too focused on the thoughts and plans in his head. He winds up a few meters ahead, still moving when Padril calls out to him.

“Hey.”

Loghain looks back– concern clear on the elf’s face. Padril points off into the fields, and Loghain’s gaze follows his finger to a small farmhouse and its barn on a hill on the horizon. 

There’s a small band of people gathered in front of it, torches bobbing in the distance. Loghain squints, and unease settles in his stomach. 

“Darkspawn?”

The elf shakes his head. “We’d be sensing them. It could be nothing, but–”

“We can’t take any chances.” Loghain finishes, nodding in agreement. “Come on!” He digs his heels into his steed, and they both set off across the fields, wind whipping at their faces. Padril struggles to keep up beside him and winds up trailing slightly behind him.

The closer they get, the stronger his sense of unease grows; he begins to make out the silhouette of people clad in armour, carrying the vague shapes of weapons. 

They haven’t noticed them yet– they’re concentrating on two more people kneeling on the ground. Crates and bags are scattered around, and it looks like they were in the middle of plundering the farmhouse.

He hardly has to warn Padril of the raiders; he has his bow out already, legs tense and clinging to his horse. The mabari on the ground snarls and charges forward, the short, black fur on his back raised, ears flat and angry.

It’s Dannan who catches their attention with his snarling and snapping, and one of them on the outskirts of the farm looks up in shock; they give a shout and drop their torch, struggle to grab and load the crossbow that had been resting on a nearby crate.

But it’s much too late: Dannan is ahead, now, and he leaps. Paws crash into their chest and they topple into the ground together: Loghain barely hears the bloody gurgling as the dog tears at their throat when he passes.

The hostages Loghain had spotted earlier are blindfolded and gagged; they’re an elderly couple, a man and a woman in plain blue-and-brown clothes. He catches them struggling against their bonds as he races past them.

Ahead, two of the raiders gather their weapons and run for their horses– he barrels towards them, sword unsheathed and raised, and he catches one just as he’s climbing into the saddle. The horses bolts as blood sprays, screaming and kicking up dust. 

An arrow flies past his head, and he whips around to see where it came from– it’s Padril. The second raider’s chest has been filled with arrows only a few steps from where Loghain sits. He’s about to call out to thank him when Loghain watches another raider appear from around the corner of the house— he’s too far away to do anything as they grab Padril’s leg and _yank_ him from the saddle.

Padril yells, his back hitting the ground; his head slams into the dirt and bounces like a child’s ball. Loghain leaps from his horse, and Dannan runs for him— the mabari gets there first, tackling the raider onto the ground, latching onto an arm and shaking like it’s a toy. The raider screams and cries, bone cracking, and Loghain approaches to put them out of their misery.

The elf is still lying on the ground, staring up at the sky, when he goes to collect him.

“Didn’t expect that,” He wheezes.

“Apologies, I didn’t see where they’d gotten to.” Loghain says, and he offers a hand to Padril. “Are you alright?”

“Mmh,” He grunts as Loghain helps to pull him up– he catches his elbow as Padril sways on the spot. “Think ‘m gonna throw up.” Padril groans, and Loghain quickly settles them back to the ground. 

He slips his gauntlet off to press his hand to the back of his head. When he does, the elf hisses, sharp teeth bared– he pulls away, and the fingertips of his glove are dark red.

“Stay here. I’ve got something for this.” Loghain reassures him. Finished with the corpse, Dannan trots to Padril’s side and noses his hand, smearing blood on his leather gloves.

Dannan gives a pitiful whine, and Loghain can _just_ hear him muttering to the dog as he leaves; he’s rummaging through his saddlebags when he hears someone else, someone new, speak.

“You doin’ alright there, kiddo?”

Loghain’s hand finally finds purchase around a small wooden jar and some bandages. He turns on his heel to see the captives up on their feet. They’ve hesitantly approached Padril, the woman behind the man. Both look… on edge.

“M’fine,” Padril manages to murmur. He has his hand pressed to the back of his head, the other resting on Dannan’s head. The dog has settled by his leg, comforting and warm.

It’s then he approaches. “He’ll be alright.” Loghain confirms, “He’s suffered from worse than this. You two, however, are terribly lucky; you’d be a head shorter had we not spotted the raiders on the road.” He kneels down behind Padril to take off his other gauntlet.

His knee aches when he bends; it’s been three months, and it’s still tight and sore. He could hardly rest it between patrols and training any new Wardens they conscripted— he regrets it, though.

Loghain unscrews the lid of the jar and dips his fingers into the cool, white salve. He parts Padril’s dark hair, and he can see where it’s started to bleed– he dabs it onto the back of his head.

“And we’re real appreciative.” The woman says. The man in front of her squints at Loghain as if he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search his face for some kind of information. “Does y’friend need any kind of help, or—“

He blinks, then, his eyes widening in recognition. He doesn’t hesitate to cut her off. “Teyrn Mac Tir, is that you?” The man straightens his posture, and any hesitance he’d had towards Padril melts away. The woman stares, confused. “Ser, I was at th’ Battle of River Dane. I served under you– I don’t think you’d remember.” 

He was right. At River Dane, he’d been so focused on surviving and it’s been so long ago that now they all tended to melt together. He could remember a good handful of his soldiers, usually, but that one had been particularly… _bad_.

“Willem’s th’ name, ser. ‘N this is my wife, Hulda.”

“Oh— _oh_. My brother served King Maric in the rebellion, too.” Loghain nods as she finally catches up to her husband’s train of thought. 

“We’d heard about what was happening in Denerim, but we didn’t believe any of it, no ser. ‘N now you’re out here, saving us from bandits ‘n all! You’re a true hero, y’know.” 

He finishes applying the poultice and manages to wrap the bandage around his head: he taps Padril’s shoulder to tell him he’s done, and Padril murmurs a thank you return.

Loghain grimaces as he pushes himself onto his feet. “Well,” He begins, and he realizes that he’s unsure of what to _say_ to that. He’s used to being hailed as a hero, but it never gets easier. “I appreciate your family’s service. We couldn’t have done it without everyone in the army; I’m sure Maric is smiling down on us all from the Maker’s side. As much as I’d love _nothing_ more than to reminisce about the past, we do have to be on our way.”

They’re words he’s said a million times before, a routine he drags out when people thank him for things he did out of _necessity_. He’s certain Padril feels relief that they don’t recognize him, too; Loghain isn’t willing to give them a chance to do so. He’ll shoulder the uncomfortable hero worship for him. 

But Willem grabs his arm and shakes his head. “Nonsense, ser! You’ve barely a few hours of daylight left to travel– y’gotta stay. For th’ night. It’s th’ least we can do, since y’saved our farm ‘n all. Y’gotta rest, surely— your friend doesn’t look in a state to travel.”

When Loghain looks to him, Padril looks far more concerned with patting his dog than anything: the decision is, no doubt, up to him. He manages to wrangle his arm back from the farmer before he speaks again. “If you _insist_ , we’d be honoured to stay. But _I_ insist— we should not bother you in your own home. We can stay in the barn.”

Willem looks disappointed, and behind him, Hulda disappears into their assaulted home. “If y’gotta. We do have room for—“

“No, no,” Loghain reassures him. “We’ll be fine.” 

Padril stays grounded for only a few minutes more; together, all three of them shift the bodies of the raiders. They check pockets and belt-bags for valuables, sling the bodies over the back of horses and ditch the corpses over the next hill. They roll into the trees and shrubbery, hidden.

Together, they try and clean up as much as possible with a bucket of water and a wet rag in the barn. It’s a struggle and a half, but they manage to get themselves presentable, at least.

They spend the next hour collecting the raider’s horses and rearranging what they’d misplaced, broken or otherwise tried to steal. Padril does it all with a grimace on his face, but Loghain insists, so he’s dragged into mending broken chairs and making sure paintings are mounted just right. Hulda oversees the redecoration with a hawk-like gaze. 

It comes to dinner, and the meal is simple. Stew, not too unlike Loghain’s father and mother used to make when he was younger, with a small hunk of bread for each of them. 

Padril seats himself between Loghain and Hulda, and for a good while it seems like they’re unsure of how to talk to him: Loghain doesn’t imagine they’ve talked to many elves before, and it lends a tenseness to their silence that’s hard to ignore. 

They try not to stick around after the bowls and plates are clean. Padril escapes outside, and as much as Loghain wants to do the same, the couple traps him inside to thank him some more. He gets dragged into conversations about the Orlesian occupation and the Blight that he doesn’t particularly want to have, and by the time he manages to get free, there’s a dull ache in his temples and his chest feels heavy and full of guilt.

The night air is cold and sharp on his skin, so cold that his breath starts to leave little white clouds floating in the wind. He can see the shapes of the hills against the sky; dark, ominous rolling waves that make him feel like he’s being _watched_. His gaze wanders as he stands outside, wondering what lurks in the tall grass dotting them– his eyes land on the barn.

Padril has left the doors cracked open ever so slightly— orange light spills from them, warm and inviting, but faint. He comes forward, trying to use the stars and the moon as his only other light source; when he pokes his head in, he spots the elf resting against a tower of hay bales, Dannan curled up next to him. He’s sitting on a wool blanket dyed a dark green colour.

Two arm’s lengths away, he’s managed to start a small, shoddy campfire. Their horses lurk not too far away, and Loghain hears the gentle cluck of hens as they try to settle back down for the night.

“May I join you?”

Padril’s eyes snap up. The fire crackles for a heartbeat, and he shrugs a little. Loghain pushes himself into the barn, leaving the grand doors open just a little; he decides to sit next to him.

The elf sits with his knees pulled to his chest, his arms wrapped tight around his legs as if he were hugging himself. He sighs softly, gaze moving back to train on the crackling fire.

“I can’t wrap my head around raiders. Why do they do it? What do they _get_ out of it— aside from money and shit to sell? All that harm is just… I don’t get it.”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I can’t imagine it’s a terribly joyful career to follow.” Loghain starts. “If only we had more people who thought like you, hm?” He offers a smile, and Padril forces a chuckle. “It’d be a better world, I’d dare say.”

Their shoulders barely touch as they sit together. “Are you alright?” Loghain asks, when Padril stays quiet.

“Yeah.” He answers. But for a moment, he’s closing his eyes, and a frown worms its way onto his soft features. “Well…” He says, his voice much more hesitant. “No, actually. Sort of? Better than I was, anyway.”

Loghain’s eyebrows rise. “Oh?”

“I mean— I don’t know. In Denerim and the weeks after, it felt like…” Padril rubs his arms as if he’s trying to fend off the cold. The fire hisses and spits in turn like an angry snake. “… like I was hovering above the bed at all times. More times than not it felt like Zevran was talking _at_ me more than anything, you know? Like I was there, but not really there.”

He knows the feeling all too well. He remembers it from Ostagar: it felt like he wasn’t in his body anymore, watching the battlefield with a filter that made everything sluggish and muffled.

“Now I feel more here. Present? Yeah. And that’s a good thing, I think, it’s like I’m in control,” Padril explains. “But on the flip side, I feel like I didn’t do enough. Like I let _so_ many people down because I couldn’t… get my shit together.”

Loghain turns to face him properly, then, even if Padril is doing his best to not to look him in the eye. He rests a hand on his shoulder-blade, trying _so hard_ to be truly reassuring, for once in his life. 

“Padril. Listen to me when I say this: you are a _good man_.” There’s an intense frown on his face, and when he finally looks at him, he sees the elf’s expression… change. Like he’s taken aback by how much he means it.

“It might seem like you haven’t done enough, but believe me, you stopped the _Blight_. You did everything you could. You saved Ferelden, for the Maker’s sake, and everyone is proud of you. _Everyone_.”

He sucks in a breath before he continues. “Your friends, the people of Ferelden— your clan, too.” His hand slips from his back and rests in his lap. “For months after we got rid of Meghren, we couldn’t stop thinking about people we’d failed. But the truth of it is, if we’d kept thinking about it we would’ve gone insane. Sometimes, all you can do is accept that you’ve done the best you could and that some will always die no matter how hard you try.”

He remains quiet, and Loghain is certain he doesn’t believe him: he does mean it, though, and it hurts to see him like this. It reminds him _too_ much of Maric. Too much of long nights spent struggling with the realisation that they could have only done so much.

So he tries to change topics. “So, after Nevarra, we’re going to find your clan, yes? You said they were in the Free Marches, correct?”

Padril shifts and suddenly he’s leaning against his shoulder. It’s a familiar movement, and it suprises him to find that protest neglects to rise in his throat at all. Their backs are to the hay-bales, Padril’s cheek on his shoulder.

“Well,” Padril says: it sounds like he’s tired. Loghain doesn’t blame him. “We tend to move all at the same time— as a habit, so we don’t stay in one place too long. Means two clans usually won’t be in the same area, too. But I think the idea was to settle near Kirkwall for a little, or… that’s what I _remember_.”

That’d be easy enough. He pictures the map of Thedas in his head, tries to plot out a course, but it’s been a while since he’s truly studied that map. It's also large enough that he has trouble; Kirkwall _should_ be to the east, at any rate. He’ll look at one in Nevarra.

“Do you miss them?” He asks. He’s never seen a Dalish clan together. Heimagines few humans have.

Padril _chuckles_ ; it’s surprising, and Loghain’s brow quirks at him. The elf shifts so he can pull the blanket he’s sitting on up and over his shoulders. He rests back down against him, and Loghain wonders if he’s going to fall asleep.

“Creators, I never thought I’d say it, but all the time. My aunt Ashalle especially. She was so kind to me. Raised me, actually. I mean, she didn’t _have_ to put up with my shenanigans as a kid, she could’ve shafted me onto someone else… but she didn’t.” He sighs. “I think the clan left her behind to manage to land for the Dalish. Y’know, that Anora gave us… I hope she’s alright.”

“If she raised _you_ , I have no doubt she can handle herself. She’ll be alright, Padril.” He offers a reassuring smile: he’s relieved to see it returned when Padril looks at him.

“You’re right. I hope so, anyway.” A hand appears from beneath the blanket-cape he’s made himself, and he brushes his own hair back and out of his face. “I miss Hahren Paivel, too. He’s an elder— he’d look after the children, tell them stories of sorrow and of adventure. I remember the tales he’d weave about our history, about our people: my friend Merrill was always so wide-eyed and eager to drink it all in. She suited being Keeper Marethari’s first, I think.”

“First?”

“Ah– you know how in your Circles, mages have apprentices?”

“It’s been a long, long time since I was inside a Circle, but… yes, I remember, vaguely.”

Padril nods. “Kind of like that, then. The Keeper of the clan mentors them– teaches them magic, ancient lore, language. Stuff like that. Merrill was ours.” He watches the shadows from his fire dance and leap along the barn’s walls as he explains. “I grew up with her; I love her dearly. Fenarel, too. He had the biggest crush on Merrill.” He recalls. It’s like talking about them has sparked something inside him, his voice warm. 

“Never did get anywhere. I think Merrill was too focused on her studies and learning to even _recognize_ that he liked her. Oh, like this one time, Fenarel dragged me and Tamlen out to…” It’s like halfway through the sentence, he starts to break up: his voice becomes unsure, his eyes distant. “Out to…”

He falls silent.

There’s an uncomfortable pain on his face that’s all too familiar. He’s tense again, shoulders drawn up.

“You don’t have to keep going if it’s too much.” It’s all he knows to say to try and help; he’s never been good at this, not even with Anora.

“You're not alone, though,” He starts, soon after. “I miss Anora greatly. Before I left, it felt like there was hardly a day where I _didn’t_ see her in some capacity. And now I don’t know when I’ll get to see her again.”

It’s clear to him that Padril’s mind is drifting, so he continues: he doesn’t know if the sound of his voice will help much, and he’s not used to talking so much. It almost makes him uncomfortable. 

“There’s always letters, of course, and I’ll write to her once we’re in Cumberland.” Loghain rolls his thoughts around in his brain for a moment, and he clears his throat. “But it doesn’t make it any easier. It never does.”

He feels eyes on him. Loghain stops himself from grimacing and dares to peek at him: Padril is peering at him with dark, curious eyes, fire lighting up his face. He notices, finally, that the elf has been leaning more against his shoulder. 

“You’re talking about King Maric, right?”

“Yes.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I miss him more every day.” He admits. The guilt is back. No one ever knew about them, did they? They hadn’t had the nerve to be open about it— not even with each other. “I wonder a lot about what he’d think of things now.”

He _certainly_ doesn’t expect the next question. “And were you ever married?”

He sucks in a breath. He isn’t quite sure why, but he obliges him, even if it hurts. “I was. Anora’s mother— Celia.” He feels a pang of _hurt_ in his chest— he hasn’t spoken of her in what feels like decades. 

Had he even spoken to Anora about her death? He couldn’t recall. 

“Anora looks _so_ much like her. She has my eyes, but she has her mother’s… entire face, otherwise.” A smirk dances at his lips as he thinks on it; her stubborn streak is one of the few things she’d gotten from both of them.

A thoughtful expression crosses Padril’s face— like he’s trying to imagine what Celia Mac Tir looked like. What kind of person, after all, would marry him?

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about her. It’s always about Maric.”

Maric hadn’t been in his thoughts for months, now; neither had Celia, but his name feels like a knife to the gut each time it’s said now and Loghain tenses, if only for a moment.

“I loved them both.” He hopes Padril can’t see the sad, lonely look on his face. “They deserved better than… all of this. Maric especially.” His shoulders drop, and he runs his thumb against his palm. He frowns at his rough, scarred hands. “He didn’t lead the rebellion only for me to go and ruin it all.”

Beside him, Padril shakes his head, and now their positions are flipped. “It’s hardly ruined. We fixed things, and you’re making up for it now. Best you can, anyway.” Loghain feels him nudge his side from underneath the blanket on his shoulders. It doesn’t knock away the approaching feeling of disappointing everyone. “Besides— Howe was behind a lot of it, right?”

A lot of his days had melted together into a paranoid, manic mess; it’s difficult to remember who arranged _what_ , exactly. 

“Howe told me… things,” He starts. “Certain noble families were conspiring with Orlesians, other rumours of a similar ilk. It didn’t help that Cailan wanted help from them. I was convinced my choices were the right ones, and I let my paranoia and anxiety overwhelm me. When you said you felt like you were there, but also not there— it was like that. Except it was still _me_ making those decisions. It’s still my responsibility.”

He feels Padril sit up a little, and when he looks at him he’s scowling. “Y’know, I’ve heard things about what you and Maric did in the rebellion. I didn’t grow up with those tales— I barely knew who you or Cailan were before Ostagar,”

“But what I’ve heard from Leliana’s stories… it’s hard to believe you did any of it with cruelty in mind, y’know? You care about your people and your country, that’s clear.” His eyes go soft, and it’s a painful look. Loghain can't meet his gaze. “You’ve been through a lot. I don’t blame _you_ if you couldn’t handle… whatever stress you were under.”

The words ache; out of all the people in Ferelden, shouldn’t Padril be one of the ones that hate him the most? 

“You know I don’t need your pity.” Loghain insists, voice dropping to a hush. “I’m aware of what I’ve done and I accept responsibility for it. I shouldn’t have let him arrange any kind of business with Caladrius.” 

Howe had him wrapped around his fingers, though. He’d been _so_ convinced that the Orlesians were conspiring to invade again. His lips almost curl in a sneer at the thought. 

_Howe approaching him, a glass of wine in hand. His entire body clenched tight like a fist. Orlesian spies are imbedded within the nobility._

He should’ve known Howe was using him. 

“I think you’re being too harsh on yourself.” Padril says. “But I won’t argue.” He sounds like he _wants_ to argue the point and it hurts him even more to hear. Why does he seem insistent on forgiving him? “I know that if I weren’t in the right frame of mind, I’d be making shitty choices, too.”

Loghain stifles a sigh. ‘Shitty choices’ was putting it _lightly_. Now, three– four? He’s not _entirely_ sure– months out from the Archdemon’s death, and it feels like he’s spat on everything Maric worked so hard for.

He shoots him a quick glance– the elf has rested his hand on his dog’s head. Dannan kicks his legs in his sleep, and a smile can’t help but crack onto his old, tired face. Circumstances aside, he’s glad they stopped here. It’s a nice change from being out in the cold.

“So.” Loghain begins again, and Padril leans into him once more. “Your father. Nevarran; I didn’t expect that. Your mother was Dalish, then?”

“Something like that.” Padril hesitates, “I know I know next to nothing about my father; he was gone before I was born. I only have his name, where he was from, and what he did for a living– apparently, anyway. He was an artist. I’m not sure if he’s even still alive. We could be going to Nevarra for nothing.”

“Artists are an important part of Nevarran culture– so I’ve heard, anyway. They’re often nobility. He’s probably protected by guards and looked after by top physicians.”

“Honestly, I don’t even know what _kind_ of art he makes. Or if he’s well known or received. Not that it matters, I guess– how many elves called Oswald could there be in Nevarra?”

Loghain is about to speak, his faint smile turning into a soft smirk– but Padril jerks up, grabs his arm as if he’s realized something.

“He might not even know me.”

He blinks at Padril, looks at his arm where he’s clutching onto him. “Didn’t you say he was never around? I’d imagine he’d have no idea you’re even alive–“

“No! No, Creators– _no_ , that’s not what I… I mean, you’re right, but…” Padril trails off to stare at him. Loghain can see the cogs turning around behind his eyes– he waits patiently, and then the elf’s voice goes quiet. “Right. I mean, he thinks he has a daughter. He doesn’t, uh…. know he has a son. You know?”

Padril's voice turns into a croak, and by now he’s let go of his shoulder, wringing his hands. It takes Loghain a second to catch up to what he’s trying to tell him– his expression reminds him of nights alone with Maric.

 _His heart jammed in throat, hands sweating, wanting to tell him everything and anything… except it’s not really the same, is it?_

“You don’t hate me now, do you?” He says, before he can say anything himself, and Loghain is _sure_ Padril looks like he’s about to cry. The firelight doesn’t help, tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill. He can’t begin to imagine how stressful it feels. Loghain’s heart sinks.

He answers immediately. “Of course not.” He assures him. “Padril, if I dared to hate you for _this_ , then I’d say that you made the wrong choice in sparing me.” Loghain twists to the side, reaches for his hands– it’s an alien move for him, holding his hands between his, but Padril doesn’t pull away. “This changes absolutely nothing, as it should.”

The change in his expression and posture is slow. He relaxes, though his eyes are still watering and he looks like a wave of exhaustion has hit him. Loghain lets his hands slip away as Padril sits back down. 

“I don’t tell many people. They can be so _awful_ about it. But I… I just thought you should know rather than… springing it on you.” He slings his blanket-cape around his shoulders and curls up once more. “‘Cause that’d be awkward, wouldn’t it? Being crammed in the middle of a family reunion where everyone’s finding out I’m trans? Whoops.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference either way; I would’ve felt the same.” He looks down at him, now; they’re sitting together once more, Loghain with his legs crossed, his arms resting on his knees. “You know, I led a squad of elven archers during the Ferelden Rebellion– we wound up calling them the Night Elves. It was mostly city elves; they were a wonderful group of people.”

“I’ve never heard about this. Leliana told me… a lot, but she didn’t mention any Night Elves.” Padril admits, voice quiet and tired.

“They weren’t a secret, but I’d imagine people don’t tend to hear about them so much.” That has always bothered him, but it’s not very shocking. Loghain’s voice drops to a murmur, then. “I remember one– Pebbles, from Lothering. It wasn’t their birth name, but it was the one they came to the rebellion with and that was enough.”

“They were an _incredible_ archer, and terribly witty to boot. You remind me a lot of them.” He chuckles when he thinks about it. “They told us they ‘didn’t do gender’ the first time the Night Elves came together. There was only ever _one_ soldier who disrespected them— and he thoroughly regretted it afterwards.”

He remembers them well: tall, broad shouldered, but lanky. Pale as a ghost, their hair dark and cut short. No armour fit them without needing several adjustments. They had lived through the rebellion, but he couldn’t remember where they’d gone to afterwards.

“I hope they’ve lived through the Blight.” He muses, looking out into the dark corners of the barn. He should’ve tried to find them. “Anyhow, enough about me– if you’d like me to be by your side while you meet the man, I’d be happy to make sure nothing happens. I’ll be as involved or invisible as you want me to— Padril?”

He looks at him again. Padril is _asleep_ , and possibly has been for a few minutes– his hand tucks under his chin, and Loghain can see the soft rise and fall of his chest.

 _Have I bored him to sleep with my story? Huh._ He considers shifting away, setting up his own bedroll…

Only he cannot hope to move, now. He has his shoulder trapped, and the only option is to suffer while Padril gets a decent sleep.

But there are worse fates, Loghain thinks. He is more than willing to suffer through a dead arm for the Hero of Ferelden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey-hey! thank you so much for reading this! another chapter down: i hope to do about 10-14 chapters in total (i've changed the story's plans a little so hopefully it'll feel less... directionless).
> 
> this one was a toughie to get out: i struggled a lot with what the ferelden farmers would say, how they'd recieve padril and loghain both. it wound up almost completely being rewritten (so a lotta the dialogue in the final draft is vastly different to the first, haha!), but i'm happier with this version, even if i don't like it as much as the others. 
> 
> it's an idea i've been playing with for a while, i actually have a REALLY early version of this on my blog somewhere!
> 
> anyway, as per usual: thank you SO much for reading this chapter. i really loved writing loghain here: it was nice to start to dig into his mental health and opinions outside of bioware content (and thus hope it's still readable and seems in character, weep).
> 
> kudos and comments (both positive and concrit!) absolutely encouraged. see you in another three hundred years for chapter 7! 
> 
> (i'm kidding. it's already written!)


	7. nevarran nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new city, a new plan, new friends: Padril and Loghain get one step closer to the man they seek.

The Waking Sea is _rough_. 

Both of them know this much before they step on board the _Paragon_ — a dwarven ship, and the only one that could actually leave on such short notice. Two days in and the skies have gone near black with clouds and thunder, vicious waves threatening to capsize the ship almost every hour.

It feels like the ocean hates them, hates their presence. 

Padril throws up twice over the railings during the trip, and Loghain remains grim-faced and pale— more-so than usual, that is. Padril’s legs cramp up, and he gets deathly bored halfway into the nine day journey. The ships’s cook is godawful, too; he feels like he hasn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks once it’s done.

It’s hell, and he begins to wish they’d just taken horses through Orlais to get to Nevarra.

Their captain is a dwarven woman with thick, scarred arms. Her white hair has been cut short, and she's missing an eye. She shouts for land on the ninth day as the sun begins to peek over the horizon. He can hear her even below deck, and it's what jerks him awake.

The ship creaks and groans around him as he wakes up. His stomach is empty and grumbling-- if they’re in Nevarra, though, he decides he can wait. He stumbles out of the itchy cot he’s been provided and struggles to pull on his boots and leather armour against the ship’s swaying.

It’s easy enough to wake when you’re eager to set foot on land again, he finds.

Dannan, who has taken up his place at the foot of the cot, scrambles up to the deck with him. The morning sea air is crisp as sailors shout and rush about the deck, adjusting sails and ropes and shifting about barrels and crates. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the bright morning light.

Loghain follows shortly after him, looking like he’s been awake for hours.

He probably has been.

“Morning!” Padril calls: he leans over the bow’s railing, now, peering at the great city on the bay.

Cumberland sits there, neat and as pretty as a painting, not a cloud in the bright blue sky. Ships cruise in and out of the port, its water a stunning green-blue and glittering like a gem. Seagulls scream overhead. It’s so big— far bigger than Denerim, Padril imagines. 

He tries to picture Denerim’s port, tries to fit it into Cumberland’s: he finds he can do it twice over.

Small mountains loom in the background behind the city, dotted with greens and greys: it almost looks like they’re pressing the city against the sea.

Loghain sidles up beside him, arms folded across his chest. “It’s enormous.” He says, a hint of awe in his voice. “I didn’t realize how different it would be.”

He snorts in response. “I don’t care how different it is as long as I can get off this bloody boat. I swear I’m scrubbing myself raw as soon as I get my hands on a bath.”

Loghain _chuckles_ at his pout. “Never was terribly fond of sailing, myself. But it’s better than the alternative.”

Padril doesn’t bother responding: he agrees, for the most part, even with how unsatisfied he is with the journey. They shut up as their captain barks orders to them: they hurry to collect what little baggage they brought with them and help the crew bring cargo up from the hold. 

Four— five hours pass before they anchor down, and the sun is high in the sky. Everyone is damp and sweaty, passing wineskins around to try and beat the heat.

When they finally step off the ship and onto the docks, Padril swears he almost feels like a new man. He stretches his legs and groans— Dannan’s nose hits the wooden planks and he makes it his mission to sniff out everything on the walkway.

Loghain has other priorities. He wheels back around once he’s off the ship. “Captain Bralsi!” He calls. “Thank you for your hospitality. It was a pleasure.”

The dwarf has the sleeves of her green shirt rolled up to her elbows, and she carries a heavy-looking sack onto the walkway. “Pleasure’s all mine, Mac Tir!” She tosses the sack onto the wood, and she grasps Loghain’s hand in a rough shake. A lopsided, easy grin stretches across her face. “I’d be honoured to have you boys back again, y’hear?”

Loghain slips her a decently sized bag, a tired smile on his face. “And we appreciate it, but I’m afraid I’ve had enough sea-faring for a few decades.”

“If you invested in a new chef, I'd be happy to come back.” Padril jokes, adjusting the buckles on his armour.

“Oi! You hardly tried the clam chowder, you can’t talk shit!” Bralsi points out, hooking the bag onto her belt for safekeeping. She eyes them both, stroking her chin, and then she hums. “You two are gonna stick out like a sore thumb if you keep wearing that armour.”

Padril dares to shrug. “I didn’t bring much else with me. I have, like, one pair of clothing with me— it won’t be that bad.”

“We can handle ourselves,” Loghain claps a hand on Padril’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about us.”

Captain Bralsi’s doubtful expression hardly phases either of them. “Alrighty. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” One of her crew hand her another sack, and she piles that next to the other. “You boys’ll need a place to stay, right? Got a friend down at the Laughing Raven on the older side of town. All you gotta do is follow the main road— you’ll see it.”

Padril grins. “Thanks! We’ll do that!”

“Of course!” Bralsi waves a hand as if it’s nothing. “When you get there, tell Sieg I’m thinking about him. You boys stay safe, y’hear?”

The crew hollers at them as they finally part and descend upon the docks; as much as he hates sailing, Padril thinks he’ll miss Bralsi and her men. The three of them hit the streets, eager for food.

The docks are _busy_. Men in sweaty, half-buttoned shirts cart around all sorts of cargo and people flood in and around the roadside shops. The faint shouting of fish vendors rises above the babbling crowd and there’s a constant hum of people’s chattering floating in the air.

Cumberland is like nothing anything either of them have ever seen before. Padril’s heard of human cities being this large, this busy, but to see it in practice makes him feel small and insignificant; his stomach twists into knots. How many people have their eyes on him, watching, waiting? How many people _actually_ know who he is?

Loghain must be struggling with it, too: he looks uncomfortable as they walk, eyes darting about, alert for any danger.

But the only thing people stop them for is so they can ask to pat Dannan. Every block, it seems, someone stops to pause and coo at the mabari; when Padril starts _looking_ , he notices there’s not a single dog like him in sight.

Instead, the locals opt for big, shaggy dogs that look more suited for herding and working, and small dogs bred to hunt rabbits and rats. They drape themselves on front porches, curl up under shop stalls and trot alongside the people. He doubts any of them would be very useful at war.

Loghain leads them through the throng of people, despite his nerves; it’s easy to keep track of him through it all. He’s tall and broad, head visible over the others even when Padril drops a step or three behind him.

As it turns out, the Laughing Raven is on the older side of the city: it’s almost an hour’s walk down the main road, not that either of them mind.

The city is gorgeous, after all: tall two and three story buildings rise above them either side of the street. Each one has an ornate façade, gargoyles sitting on their windowsills, judging from above. Cobblestone lines the pathways, and it all seems so grand– it’s like an artist has personally sculpted the city out of brown and red stone and brick. 

_In comparison,_ Padril thinks, _Denerim looks like it’s been mashed together by a three year old._

The streets get narrower towards the older parts of the city, often only allowing three people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder at a time. Regardless, the crowds do not ease up; Padril slips behind Loghain as they walk, side by side with his dog. He finds himself staring at the buildings they pass, all beautiful and crammed together like sardines in a can.

He spots an elven woman on a balcony, a cigar between her lips, eyes on the people beneath her. Her curly hair is pulled back in a bun. Their gazes meet, briefly— but then she taps her ash into the crowd and continues people-watching.

Further along the street, a set of human men drape wet clothes along rope nailed between their houses; on one side of the street, the man has thick mutton-chops and a cat balancing precariously on his balcony railing. The other carries a baby in a sling across his chest as he works, and neither seem particularly bothered by the crowd below. 

It takes them a further twenty minutes to reach their destination: and they certainly do see the Laughing Raven.

It sinks sadly between two three-tiered buildings, and it’s made more of dark wood than stone. Its chimney coughs out grey smoke into the sky.

Hanging above the door is a faded wooden sign on rusted chains; a painted raven giggles hysterically to itself, as if it’s thought of the world’s funniest joke.

Despite its old and worn exterior, the stained glass windows emit a warm, orange glow. Gentle but lively music floats out from inside, beckoning them. Their stomachs growl and they find themselves making a beeline for the door, desperate for a proper, hot meal.

Loghain pushes the door open for Padril, ushering him inside.

It takes a second, but the liveliness of the place slows and eyes are _on_ them. On a stage in the far corner, a musician plucks at his lute while a dancer sings and sways not too far away. Neither of them stop performing, but they spare a quick glance their way. The murmur and chatter in the inn dies away.

They’re all looking at them like they’ve murdered someone. Padril finds himself squirming under their glares— this is what Bralsi meant when she’s said they’d stick out like sore thumbs, then.

Several people are hunched over the bar nursing mugs of ale. One digs into a plate of sausages, mushrooms and tomatoes smothered in gravy, and another picks at a small wooden bowl of nuts. They slide into two empty seats at the bar. 

The man behind the bar studies them as he cleans a mug. He’s big— towering over Loghain, even, all broad shoulders and muscle. A dirty apron hangs from his neck and covers his belly; the sleeves of his brown shirt are rolled up to expose biceps as thick and scarred as tree-trunks. His hair is cut short and swept back, his thick beard neat and tidy. 

“You’re not here to cause issues, are you? ‘Cause we don’t tolerate troublemakers here.” He says, and he puts his mug down, leans over the bar to look at them. When he speaks, his voice is low and rumbling— the voice of someone who gives orders.

It’s _all_ too clear he’s talking to them.

He tries not to show it, but Padril’s nerves seep into his smile, make his voice wobbly and unsure. “Uh— nope! No troublemakers here. Uh, actually, we were told this was a decent place to stay. And,” He fishes out his coin purse, slaps far too many gold coins down than necessary. “We’d like a room, if you have one.” 

“And who told you that?”

“Bralsi, captaini of the Paragon.”

“Really?” The bartender regards him warily, and then glances to Loghain. His gaze lingers for a moment, but at least her name has softened the frown on his face. “All our two bed rooms’ve been taken, unless—“

Loghain cuts him off before he finishes. “We’ll be fine with one.” Padril is about to protest, but Loghain shoots him a glance that makes him reconsider. 

Behind the bar, he shrugs. “As you wish.” His hand disappears under the counter for a moment– he retrieves a copper key, slips it into Padril’s hand. “Name’s Siegfried. If anything’s wrong, give us a yell. Your room’s upstairs, three doors on your left.”

Padril tucks the key into one of the small bags at his waist and shoots Siegfried a quick smile. “We’re on our best behaviour, ser. Trust me, no issues from us!” He doubts anyone’d bother them, considering, but it’s nice to know at the very least.

Siegfried is about to ask their names as he sweeps the coins into his hand, but as soon as he looks up, both of them are halfway across the room, their mabari hot on their heels. 

He frowns at the back of their heads as they leave him behind. They’re so _familiar_ that the thought keeps nagging at him whenever he tries to think of something else, but he can’t put his finger on it, not for the life of him.

As soon as they disappear from sight, the bar bursts with life again– even the musician plucks his lute with more enthusiasm. 

**** 

Padril can hear the conversations grow louder as they climb the stairs. He’ll ask Siegfried for advice on where to start searching later– the first order or business, though, was to ditch their armour and have a hot bath.

Hours later, and it’s done.

Loghain squirms as Padril locks their room behind them– Dannan whines behind the door. “This feels foolish.” He says. “Walking around without weapons or armour feels… reckless.” 

“I know. But we can’t risk having the locals be wary of us, you know? I want to find my father as quickly as possible and then _move on_.”

“No, I know.” Loghain sighs, straightens out his shirt– it’s black and he looks _good_. His eyes trail over to the golden dragon stitched on the right side of his breast. It’s reared on its hind legs, snarling and angry. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve got my hunting knife hidden on me.”

“ _Ugh_. How dare you, Loghain. How dare you feel the need to protect yourself!” Padril grins at him, and from the sleeve of his white shirt he slips out a hidden dagger.

Padril watches as the corners of his lips twitch in a small smile. “And we agreed on leaving weapons behind. You’re terrible, Mahariel.” He shakes his head, tsking. He motions with his hand and side-by-side they start off down the hall.

“Terrible? Oh, c’mon, you love it. I’m just looking out for us– I wasn’t sure if you could stash something on you. I mean, the whole sword and shield thing isn’t terribly covert, you know.”

Padril glances at him. He rolls his next comment around on his tongue for a bit, until finally: “Besides, you look good all casual! Black’s your colour.” He nudges him in the ribs as he passes, overtaking him– mostly so he can’t see the blush developing on his cheeks.

Day had turned into night far quicker than Padril had expected. It felt like one moment, the sun had been high in the sky as they’d pulled into the docks, and then the next he’d been bathing as the sun set, his cramped and aching muscles easing in the hot water.

All they had to do now was ask Siegfried for advice. It’s easily an hour past midnight; when they get downstairs, the bar is quiet and empty, not a soul to be found at any seat. Only Siegfried remains behind the counter. A petite, dark-haired woman stacks chairs tables towards the back of the room. 

There’s a small wooden box to Siegfried’s left, and he pours over a hefty pile of coins in front of him. Only occasionally does he break away from counting coins to scribble something down with a quill on the piece of parchment next to his coins. He doesn’t look up as they approach; Padril clears his throat, catches his attention.

“I figured you’d come down for the evening. Couldn’t stay up there forever. The eyes too much for you?”

Loghain hums in agreement. “Something like that, yes.”

“Next time you’ll dress appropriately, huh?” They both seat themselves on a barstool each, and Siegfried finally lifts his head. “One moment.” The big man abandons his work to disappear through a door behind the bar– it swings open, and Padril catches a quick glance into the kitchen. 

Siegfried returns with two plates of meat, bread and cheese– he slides them across the oak bar, forks and knives following.

It’s incredible: there’s sausage, a small hunk of cheese and bread, a few slices of bacon. Both Loghain and Siegfried almost fade out of existence when he starts to shovel it into his mouth. 

It burns the roof of his mouth and his tongue, but it tastes like it’s made by the Creators themselves. He swears he’s never had anything this good before— and it’s definitely not the several hours on an empty stomach speaking. 

Beside him, Loghain struggles to maintain his composure as he eats. He can tell, from out of the corner of his eye, that he’s trying to be polite— but denying the Grey Warden appetite is a battle you’re always bound to lose, Padril finds.

Siegfried manages to crack a smile at them. “Figured you’d be hungry, too. You both look like you’ve had… an interesting time of it.” He takes his quill back up and moves back to counting coins. “Knowing Bralsi, you’ve probably been on the rough seas.”

“ _That’s_ an understatement.”

All is quiet for a few minutes as they eat, the clacking of metal against ceramic and the skrit-skrit of quill on parchment filling the void.

It’s Siegfried who starts speaking again, almost five minutes later. He’s hunched over the bar at this point, a good deal of his coins packed into bags. It's about fifty gold a bag from what Padril can tell, and he counts sixteen fat bags on the countertop— _hm. They must be making a hefty profit._

“I never did catch your names.”

“You never asked.” Padril points out, popping the last slice of bread and cheese into his mouth. Siegfried frowns at the paper he’s writing on.

“To be fair, I hardly got the chance.”

“… Sorry.” Padril puts his knife and fork down and gingerly pushes the empty plate away. He immediately feels guilty. “I’m Padril.”

“Loghain.”

Siegfriend looks at them both, and there’s a hint of _recognition_ in his eyes. His entire demeanour shifts: one moment, he’s friendly with them, and the next… “Very few people getting around with that name.”

Loghain clears his throat. He sits a little taller, and Padril grows _very_ aware of how quiet it is. It even feels like his breathing is too loud. “No,” Loghain agrees. “I don’t imagine there would be.”

The man sets down his quill, rests his hands on the bar’s edge, shoulder-width apart. “So. What kinda business does an elf, the Hero of River Dane, and their mabari have in Nevarra?”

His tone has gone sour, and he’s glowering at Loghain. Anxiety drops, cold and heavy, in Padril’s gut.

“Hey,” He starts, forcing through the lump in his throat. He leans forward and looks between them. “When I said we weren’t here to cause trouble, I _meant_ it.” 

The _last_ thing they need is to be thrown out head-first into the streets.

Siegfried’s eyes never leave Loghain; the old soldier sits there, hands in his lap. “Lotta people lost their lives because of you, you know.” His voice becomes low, dangerous. “I lost my entire business. My children.”

Padril has to look away as Loghain’s face saddens. He wonders if the guilt etched onto his face is for lack of action or that it ever happened in the first place. “I’m sorry,” Loghain says, and he sounds like he means it. “If there’s anything I can do–“

“Can you bring it all back?”

Loghain’s lips purse

“Then no, you can’t.” The scraping of chairs being pushed onto tables fills the brief silence between them all. Padril’s lungs burn: he’s too nervous to breathe. “I should throw you both out.”

But then his lips are moving before he can stop himself. “But you _won’t_ ,” Siegfried’s gaze breaks away from Loghain, finally, and he finds himself under a heavy scowl. “Because then you’d be kicking out the Hero of Ferelden, and– um, y’know, I saved Ferelden, right? And this guy–“ Padril claps his hand to Loghain’s shoulder. He jumps a little, surprised by the sudden contact. “—killed the archdemon.”

Well, it was a team effort, but Padril doesn’t have to tell him that. Loghain _did_ deliver the killing blow, after all.

May as well distract from the whole ‘Hero of Ferelden’ thing. He _hated_ that name.

“Good for him.” Siegfried gives a frustrated grumble as he pushes himself off the counter. “And so the elf is important too. Wonderful. We’ve got a star-studded guest-list tonight, Frieda.”

The woman has stopped putting chairs up, now— she’s sweeping the floor, and has been for a few minutes. She offers a quick, sympathetic glance as she works. “I heard. My ears _do_ work, you know.”

“Sometimes I doubt it.” He turns his attention back to Loghain, steely frown nailed to his face. Padril watches, uneasy. He’s certain that if he wasn’t there, Siegfried would’ve already leapt across the bar to crush Loghain’s head like a grape. 

He’s thankful they came downstairs together, then. He rather needs Loghain alive.

“You never did answer my question.” Siegfried points out. It takes Padril a second to realize what he means; he shares a look with Loghain, uncomfortable. 

“Uh, well,” Padril rubs his arm with a nervous laugh. “It sounds silly, but I’m here to find my father. He’s meant to be an artist or something— I’m not even sure if he’s still alive.” He admits. “He could be dead and buried for all I know.”

Siegfried’s brow softens, and for a moment he looks like he’s pitying him. Padril hates it. “No offence, boy, but you could drag fifty great Ferelden generals into Cumberland and it’d still be impossible to find just _one_ Nevarran elf. Artist or not. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.”

“But— I mean— you’re probably right, but I need to try. Otherwise I've wasted our time, and then—“ He stops himself and wrings his hands. “I mean, I have a name, at least. There _has_ to be only a few elven artists named Oswald running about, right?”

Siegfried blinks at him like the contents of his skull have dribbled out of his own ear. But then he squints at him like he’s trying to figure him out. “Huh,” He says to himself. “That’s— hm. There’s actually a Mortalitasi member that fits that… err, description. And I’ve seen portraits of the man— you could pass as a family member, I reckon. Oswald Thaddeus, if I’m remembering right. He’s an artist, I think— does… strange paintings. Am I getting it correct, Frieda?”

She's sweeping remnants of a broken mug someone had left at their booth onto a wide piece of cloth. “So I’ve heard. Templars suspected him of being a blood mage because of it at one point.”

“A blood mage? Why?”

“I _heard_ that it’s because he began painting pictures of… grotesque creatures. Demons, darkspawn— creatures no one'd even heard about, landscapes that were so bizarre they made people feel uneasy. They thought he was an abomination.” She hums, “Turned out that he was just bizarre.”

Behind the bar, Siegfried shakes his head. “Shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone. Death Mages are all strange fellows— I’ve got a theory that what they do _changes_ them. They handle hundreds of bodies a week, after all. No man is the same after that.”

Loghain makes a small noise, almost as if he’d had whatever he’d been thinking confirmed. “I knew ‘Mortalitasi’ rang a bell. I read about them, once. They seem like necromancers to me.”

Behind them, the woman laughs, short and sharp. “All you outsiders think the same. The Mortalitasi, how we honour our dead— if it’s not how you do it, it’s unsettling.” She snorts. “They don’t raise the dead. Necromancy was a Tevinter thing, last I heard.”

Siegfried shrugs half-heartedly. “Either way, they’re powerful— advisors to the King, too. Not that they’d be giving him much advice, these days.”

Frieda carries her broom and the broken pieces of mug with her when she approaches. Siegfried lifts a section of the countertop, and it swings up and open for her to slide behind the bar.

“People’re saying King Markus is ill,” Siegfried explains, scooping their dishes up to pass to Frieda as she disappears into the kitchen. “He has been for a while, apparently. People started noticing that he never left the palace anymore, and the court sessions started becoming real secretive. Used to be that you could walk in and explain your problems— not any more.”

His voice drops low, low enough that were the bar full, only they’d be able to hear. “People think the Mortalitasi are trying to rule through him.”

Concern grows on Padril’s face. “If King Markus hasn’t been seen by the public in weeks, what’s to say he’s even still alive?”

“If the king were dead, the entire country would know it by now. It would’ve slipped out somehow. Hell,” Loghain folds his arms across his chest. It draws Padril’s eye— both of them are doing it, frowning thoughtfully like the old men they were. “Maric was hardly gone two days more than he was meant to be and people _knew_.”

Siegfried nods in agreement. “I doubt the Mortalitasi have the nerve to hide something like that. Markus is still alive, I’m sure of it.”

A pensive expression settles on Loghain’s face. “However, if it’s getting to the point where people can put words into his mouth, he might not be alive for very much longer.”

All three of them sit in silence as they consider it. If the man is his father— well, the idea leaves a bad taste on his tongue.

“I gotta go meet him. Um, Oswald, that is. Not King Markus.” Padril’s voice is soft, but determined. “Where should I go?”

Loghain’s eyebrows rise. “I doubt it’s as easy as showing up, Padril. The man would be well-guarded.”

“And you’re some elf who’s wandering in off the street.” Siegfried points out. “They’d never just _let you in_ , especially not in this climate. And arranging a meeting would take weeks to come through— _if_ he finds you interesting. I’ve heard even that can vary from person to person.”

Loghain’s hand brushes at his elbow. “I can write to Anora and see if she’ll help, but it’ll take time to reach her and time to get back. It’s still better than nothing.”

It’s hardly appealing, staying in Nevarra for weeks— but it seemed like they have little choice. What else were they meant to do?

“Is there no other way to get his attention?”

Siegfried considers him for a heartbeat. The look Padril gives him: it’s pleading, begging him to help. He's not even sure if he can. “You really wanna go through with this, huh? Why?”

He’s so skeptical that Padril wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Why _was_ he even doing this? He wasn’t sure, but they were knee-deep in it, now. 

“Well— you said I looked like him, right? And he’s an artist, his name’s Oswald… I can’t be sure until I meet him, but… there’s always a chance. We’re already here, so we may as well, right? I just-- I wanna find him.”

If there was any way for Siegfried to look more skeptical, this was it. He grits his teeth. “… Damn it. Alright.” 

He reaches under the bar for another piece of parchment: soon enough, Siegfried’s quill flows swiftly across the page. “I know someone who can help. All we have to do is get this letter to him and we _should_ hear back by morning— hey, Frieda!” 

The woman looks as if she’s been interrupted when she pops her head out of the kitchen to answer. “Yes?” 

He finishes scribbling, rolls up the letter with a piece of twine to keep it tight. He turns around to look at her, clutching the scroll behind his back. 

Padril can’t see it, but he can practically hear the sheepish grin on his face, and he watches his fingers tap against the parchment. “I _know_ you’re going home and all— but I was wondering if you could deliver a message to your, err, _friend_.”

It looks like she can’t believe him. Frieda’s entire body slips out of the kitchen and she gives him a glare of disapproval. “Garrett won’t appreciate it, you know. Besides, didn’t you just want to throw these two out of here? And now you’re trying to help them?”

“Yeah, well—“ Siegfried takes a second to suck in a breath– he huffs and thrusts the letter towards her. “They’ll be running around Nevarra with no leads if I don’t, and they’re more likely to get into even worse trouble if they’re allowed to do that—“

“He’s right!” Padril cuts in. “We’re awful, horrible people, really. I don’t know what I’m doing at least eighty per-cent of the time. And if we’re allowed to wander off in every direction, we might accidentally set something on fire, or… or deface a necropolis or… you know.” 

Loghain jabs his elbow into his ribs, and the elf shrugs back: “What?” He whispers. “I’m helping our cause!”

Frieda’s attention shifts back to her boss. “You owe us both for this.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Just… remind him that I’ve never done this before and that I won’t again. It’s the only time I’m using your relationship like this, I promise.” Frieda finally takes the letter, twirls it between her fingers. “Thanks.”

“You’re damn right you’re thankful.” She agrees. She tucks it under her arm. “You _know_ he won’t let you forget it, either.” Frieda vanishes into the kitchen– she comes back with a small shoulder-bag, letter no longer in sight. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” She pats Siegfried’s shoulder and he grunts in acknowledgement. “It was, uh– nice meeting you both.”

The last bit sounds unsure, but Padril offers a warm smile regardless. “And you, too.”

As soon as she’s gone, Loghain leans closer to the bar. “She won’t get in trouble for this, will she? Who’s Garrett?”

It’s as if Seigfried has forgotten they were ever there– his stare rips from where she’d gone. In the candlelight, there’s a glint of _purpose_ in his eyes– it’s a look that makes Padril jittery and eager to get moving. 

“We’re getting you in to see that Mortalitasi member,” Siegfried says, twirling and tugging at the end of his beard. “I’ve told Garrett van Markham you need his help. I hope you two aren’t against owing him a favour.”

Padril shakes his head . “Of course not.”

“Van Markham?” Loghain repeats, sounding surprised. “Aren’t they–“

“Nobility, yes. And he’s the only person in a position to help you right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bluuuh. 
> 
> So! This chapter was a lot of chatting! I love writing dialogue, and I LOVED figuring out Nevarra and the Mortalitasi; there's not a lot of info on the country, so I kinda just filled in what I needed to! Describing buildings and thinking about architecture is definitely another favourite writing... habit(?) of mine.
> 
> I also wrote a good portion of this chapter to The Family Crest's song, Sell Yourself Lightly. It's the energy I imagined the bard and their dancer were giving to the inn, lmfao.
> 
> Thank you again for reading & sticking with this fic! Hopefully I can officially finish it up in a few more chapters (though I still have ideas it won't touch on, I've got to move on to other projects!), we'll see! I definitely want to finish it by the time I started it last year!
> 
> As always, comments of any kind are completely appreciated & wanted!


	8. on best behaviour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padril and Loghain are set loose upon Cumberland: it's nothing but the best behaviour from here on out, like Siegfried expects, right?
> 
> Right?

As it turns out, Siegfried’s letter really _does_ set it all out for them. It arranges the time and all they have to do is wait for Frieda to come back with directions to the meeting place.

That night, Loghain tells Padril that he’d once read that the van Markhams were one of the most powerful families in Nevarra. _Only second to the Pentaghasts themselves_ , he says, and even if Padril doesn’t care for shemlen politics, the idea keeps him awake.

Even in the middle of the day the streets are swarming with hundreds of people; it’s difficult to stick together. It feels like they’re salmon swimming upstream, tall homes shading them from the sun.

A stone wall separates the districts at one point; they pass through an intricate set of iron gates, and the guards hardly pay attention to them. Only the guards carry weaponry— openly, anyway. He figures a great many people have a blade or two stashed on them like they’ve done.

The houses become stone estates with iron fences and grand gardens. There is a guard at each one, silent and stoic. They protect children playing in the yards behind them, screaming and chasing eachother barefoot. The nobility sit on balconies high above them drinking tea and eating glazed scrolls.

And then, before they know it, they’re there.

It’s surprising: the directions lead them to an estate that looks more like a townhouse. The dark brick exterior and white windows make it look old and elegant, but hardly worthy of one of the most powerful families in Nevarra. Padril almost thinks they’ve got the wrong place before Loghain double-checks the letter.

They shoot each-other sceptical glances. Unsure, they climb the small steps to the black wood door. A golden dragon’s head is set into the wood at about eye-height, and it carries a thick circle of metal in its mouth.

When they knock, they can almost hear it echoing through the hall behind the door.

They wait a minute.

And then two.

Loghain’s brow furrows. “We _are_ on time.”

Padril knows. He chews his bottom lip, glancing at the windows on either side of the door; he’d try and peek in, but the stair’s railings stop them, and they’re _just_ far enough off the ground to be inaccessible. 

He huffs. “Maybe something unexpected happened. If he really is a van Markham, he’s sure to be incredibly busy–“

There’s a sudden shuffling behind the door and it swings open, cutting him short. They both stare like deer in a set of headlights when they see who answers: it’s an elf. 

He wears plain tan clothes– similar to that of the elves in Denerim’s alienage– and a white apron, his back hunching over. His blonde hair is cut in a short and messy bob, his green eyes quick and nervous. He looks meek, and he clears his throat.

“Ser Mac Tir and Ser Mahariel, correct?”

His voice is so raspy that hearing it makes Padril wish he’d brought one of their waterskins.

“Uh– sure am, that’s us!” Padril nods, and the man steps aside to usher them in.

“Apologies. Mister van Markham is very busy at the moment, I’ll fetch him immediately.”

They step inside, and it’s _beautiful_. Polished, gleaming floorboards line the long hallway, and a dark green rug stretches almost the entire length. The walls are a darker shade of green, and little flowers and leaves have been painted so that they crawl to the ceiling. Little wall-mounted candelabras light up the hall. 

He leads them into a room on their immediate left: it’s a small, bright sitting room with an alarming amount of plants in it.

Well, not _truly_ alarming, but it looks as if this room were singlehandedly trying to make up for the lack of garden out the front. Various ferns and potted flowers and shrubs sit around the room: someone has put several pots of elfroot on the windowsill.

As he passes the window, he catches the sight of the crowd in the streets again: it’s thinning out, but not enough to make him feel comfortable.

They both take a seat at the small, wooden table in the centre of the room. An intricate white tablecloth has been draped over it, and Padril finds his eyes catching on the details.

The elf disappears deeper into the house, and they’re left there to stew in awkward silence, casting glances at eachother every so often. It’s hard to describe the feeling in the room: it’s like they don’t know what to do with themselves, don’t know what to expect.

A cheery voice cuts through the silence. “Ah! There you are! Apologies— I had a letter to write.” The human standing within the doorway is beaming from ear to ear; he’s around Padril’s height, maybe a little taller. “It’s an honour to have you both in my home.”

The man is plain-looking enough: his bright orange hair is in an undercut, the top half slicked back and tamed, his slim jaw clean-shaven. A small scar across his left cheekbone rises, dark against pale skin. His bright blue eyes are wide, though there are bags under his eyes: he looks like he’s fighting off a wave of tiredness. 

He wears a formal maroon vest over a white, flowing shirt; there are several gold and silver pins on his breast, perhaps military in nature. His leather boots look more fashionable than practical. It’s strange: he’s wiry and fit, but it looks like he’s more used to the life of a noble than that of a soldier.

He slinks into the room and takes the seat opposite to Padril. “As soon as I received Siegfried’s letter I was more than willing. It would be my absolute pleasure to help the Hero of Ferelden.” He reaches across the table to shake Padril’s hand. “After all, we would not be sitting here had you not done what you did, yes?”

 _He’s cute, though,_ he thinks. _In that weaselly kinda way._

“I’m sure someone would’ve picked up the slack,” Padril says, sheepishly. “There’s plenty of Grey Wardens around, I was… only in the right place at the right time.”

That isn’t exactly true, but still.

Loghain picks up on it, too: his eyebrow quirks at him. “Oh! Uh— this is Loghain,” Padril continues. “He’s my—“ 

Coworker? Friend? Partner? What is he meant to call him?

“— travelling companion.” Thank the Creators he doesn’t have to finish the sentence– the man turns to face him, his smile broadening to a point where it sits uneasily with both of them. Hesitantly, Loghain offers one of his hands. 

Immediately, Garrett _vigorously_ shakes Loghain’s hand. For a moment, Padril wonders if the shem was going to rip it straight from the wrist-socket. He struggles to contain the snicker bubbling in his throat when he spots the displeasure on his face.

“Wonderful, wonderful! It is a pleasure! I have never had a Grey Warden in my home before, and now here I am, jumping straight in to the deep with two! So— how may I assist?” 

“Well,” Padril begins, as Loghain pulls his hand out of van Markham’s grip. “I’m kinda searching for someone right now. And— uh, I need to talk to one of the Mortalitasi about it.”

Garrett’s eyebrows rise— Loghain folds his arms across his chest in the seat beside him. “You are searching for one of the dead, then? 

“Not… _exactly_.” He wonders if it’s a good idea to tell him the entire story. Van Markham sits across from him with a curious look, as if he’s trying to figure them both out. “We’re looking for Oswald— he might be able to help us.”

From behind Garrett, the elf from earlier begins to enter the room. He carries a bronze tea-tray, and he is silent as he moves. He waits until Padril has stopped speaking before he sets the tray down in front of van Markham. 

When his arms slip past the man, Padril spots thick, knotted scars wrapping around his wrists— he does a double take, blinking in shock. Loghain seems undisturbed by it: _surely_ he caught a glimpse as well.

It reminds him of Fort Drakon. Of cold, heavy iron at his wrists, of not being able to move more than two steps in every direction. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth as Garrett mutters, “Thank you, Rhionn. You may go, now.”

“We share a common goal, then. I, too, want to… access Ser Thaddeus— for different reasons, undoubtedly, but my point still stands.” He sits straighter in his chair and proceeds to organise the tea that had been set in front of him; he offers it to them both. “Perhaps we can strike a deal, hm?”

Both of them politely decline the tea.

“What do you have in mind?” Loghain asks, arms still folded— Padril can tell by the sour frown on his face that he’s not liking the idea.

For a second Garrett blows away the white steam-clouds billowing from his cup, and his eyes study Padril. His lips twitch curiously. “I do not know how much you both know of the current political climate in Nevarra, but Oswald is not well regarded these days.” He sips at his tea, makes them wait as he sets it back down on the tray.

“It has gotten to the point where people have begun to crowd at the gates in anger. It has made him a recluse— and that is an issue.”

Padril blinks in surprise. “We knew people were upset about the King… we didn’t know it was _that_ bad.”

“Of course it has. People are _furious_ ; the Mortalitasi are meant to be advisors to King Markus, but Markus has become ill and fragile. Weak of mind,” Garrett rolls his hand in a circle as if to help him elaborate. “People do not want a ruler that can be pushed around by his advisors, mh? And so they want him and his fellows—“

“Gone?” Padril offers; it makes sense. He’s still _entirely_ not sure where this is going, and that frustrates him.

“Exactly.”

Loghain’s scoff is humourless, like he’s catching on to the Maker’s sense of humour and he isn’t appreciating it. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and wager that you want _us_ to get rid of the man while we’re there.”

Garrett van Markham’s smile grows coy, and he nods. “You catch on quick, Loghain.”

“Spare me. I know how this goes.”

He clears his throat, then, straightens his posture; his smile turns sly. “Then let me get right to it. Here is where you two come in.”

Van Markham hardly gives them any opportunity to interrupt— but that might be for the best. “My family has _changed_ Nevarra. Without us, it would have remained a city state under Orlais– and I am certain you aware of how that could have gone.”

The pointed look he gives Loghain makes him squirm in his seat. He grits his teeth as if he wants to say something, like he’s hit a nerve but his mouth has been glued shut. It’s not like he can snap at him, after all.

“Tylus van Markham lead this country to greatness and I intend to do the same. But the current crop of Mortalitasi _must_ go: they are far too corrupt and self-serving. I have men in Nevarra City and Perendale working on the others, but Oswald is… more difficult. His guards know me and my men. We cannot say we are there to see him and expect to walk around without any issues.”

He lifts his teacup to his lips, but hesitates. “However, two Grey Wardens asking for his attention? That would interest him. In return for getting you in to see the man, I need you to kill him.” He chuckles, then. “After you have conducted your own business, of course.”

One of Loghain’s fists has balled under his arms. “You’re asking a great deal for one meeting. We don’t care about your political qualms— we _could_ find our own way to get where we need to be.”

Padril’s leg jerks and the tip of his boot finds contact with Loghain’s ankle. He jumps a little, and Garrett’s eyes snap to him. It’s a message, if anything: do _not_ antagonise this man.

Garrett drinks from his cup again and closes his eyes. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, and when he speaks there’s an underlying sense of _impatience_. “You are more than free to decline the offer, Loghain. Both of you are. But the only other way you would get an audience is by contacting him directly, and Oswald is _notoriously_ hard to get a hold of these days. Is there something else you would have of me, for a _suitable_ exchange?”

Padril shakes his head. “It’s fine. We don’t need to hear any more: we’ll do it. Ignore my friend here.” He insists.

Any impatient undertone that was there a second ago is now gone; the broad smile is back, and he puts down his cup to reach across the table for Padril’s hand. “Well, that is good to hear! I am relieved: you will not regret this, I assure you. _Both_ of you.” He begins to stand up. “I can have you both in the estate within an hour, if it suits you both.”

And it does.

As soon as van Markham is gone, his teacup with him, Loghain _turns_ on him with a scowl on his face. “He’s bribing us into being his own personal assassins, Padril.” He hisses. “We don’t even know if he’ll make a good king!”

“We have no other options, Loghain.” Padril shoots back. “You heard him: there’s crowds around the gates and he’s not willing to see people now! ” His eyes flick to the hallway door, and he becomes _very_ aware of the fact that people could be listening in. “Listen, I’ll figure it out, ok? But for now, this isn’t the time. We have to take what we’re given.”

Loghain’s scowl hardens and he leans back into his chair. “This isn’t a good idea.” He murmurs, so only they can hear. “The man is too…”

“… much of a nobleman?”

He nods. “Exactly.”

It takes about twenty minutes more before van Markham returns. His teacup is gone, replaced with a roll of parchment tied into a tight tube with golden ribbon. He offers the scroll to Padril and a smile to Loghain.

“With this, you should have no issues getting past the gates and the guards. It is outdated, but it has the royal seal on it— they will be too focused on the crowd to take the time to check.” Garrett’s smile is ever-present. “I do appreciate that you were willing to accept my deal. You are doing Nevarra a great service with this.”

Loghain is the first to stand; when he pushes in his chair, it scrapes across the ground and Padril can’t help but cringe.. Garrett’s face _twitches_. “We don’t have much choice.” He says; something close to contempt drips from his words.

Van Markham’s smile grows thin. 

“No, you don’t.”

**** 

They find themselves in what could really only be described as a wide public square. A grand marble fountain sits at its centre, the pride of the block.

But there are only three estates here, each one spanning almost the entire length of its side of the square. They’re all three-storied, with varying shades of brown stone walls and charcoal tiles roofs. The gardens behind two of the fences are vast and alive, full of vibrant in-season flowers that poke through the bars. 

The estate ahead of them is the exact opposite of the other two in the worst sense.

A crowd rippling with angry mutterings has gathered before its’ gates. There’s easily one, two hundred people of varying races, all cramped together. Guards struggle to push back against the throng of people, and the garden is wilting— in some places, it’s outright dying. Heavy red satin curtains have been pulled across every window, and if it weren’t for the people out the front, Padril would’ve assumed it was abandoned.

They wander into the center of the square, closer to the fountain: Padril peers into the crystalline water with awe. Little bronze coins have been tossed to the bottom.

It’s gorgeous. Small knights have been carved as a bas-relief into the pool’s knee-high walls, and in the middle rises a tower with a tiled, cone-shaped roof. Circled around the tower itself, claws hooked into stone, is a dragon covered in moss. Water billows from its open maw to the pool; every detail has been painstaking carved, and Padril can’t help staring at it with his mouth open.

He tosses a couple of silver into the water for good luck, and he catches Loghain's smile out of the corner of his eye. They begin the struggle of working through the crowd.

At least van Markham wasn’t lying: getting in _was_ a breeze. Four guards, too busy holding people back to bat an eyelid when Padril offered the stamped letter.

It’s an uncomfortably long walk from the gates to the front door. Weeds grow between the cracks of the stone walkway, and long grass roams unchecked across the garden.

Padril makes it a point to grab Loghain's wrist before he knocks. For a second, all he does is stare up into bright blue eyes: he's never noticed how vibrant they are, kinda like a cloudless blue sky--

"Is something wrong? Do you want to leave?" He asks, leaning in so only they'd hear. No one's around, only the guards and the people at the gates, but they can _hardly_ hear.

"No, no," Padril starts, shaking his head. He lets go of his wrist. "Sorry. I just-- thanks. For doing this with me."

Loghain cracks a smile, and Padril feels his heart in his chest doing the strangest thing. "Of course."

He knocks, and a _cook_ lets them in. He says little, offering a ‘good afternoon’ and a ‘Follow me’. 

He leads them into the grand entrance hall, and it’s hard not to gawk: it’s a large, open room with a hallway branching from each side. In front of them, two curved marble staircases climb to the second floor.

In fact, the entire floor here is marble; it’s dark red, stark white veins rippling through it. It’s what’s in the center of the room that truly makes their jaws drop: it’s a statue.

It is, Padril thinks, the most grotesque statue he’s ever seen in his life. It's a humanoid carved out of grey stone, several feet tall and completely naked. Its muscles bulge in unnatural places, and its face contains a rabid fury that makes Padril feel uncomfortable deep in his stomach. Thick patches of scales cover their body, and small, nub-like horns poke from their forehead. They almost resemble a dragon, except… they looked human. 

Cobwebs hang from its flexed, grasping talons. Padril tears his eyes away.

There’s a thick layer of dust covering almost everything, and they leave soft footprints on the marble as they walk. It's shocking anyone would leave their home like this, he thinks, grimacing as the cook leaves footprints as he walks.

He takes them down at _least_ three different halls. Each one is lined with paintings of various eldritch horrors; demons with hundreds of eyes, humans with snake eyes and bird wings, landscapes full of fire and death. 

Padril recognizes several as the Fade itself, except… it's different: twisted, shadow beings roam blackened streets, and there is little but darkness to these paintings. The entire thing sits badly with him, like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t be. Even Loghain looks on edge: the cook, however, is unperturbed. 

It’s so quiet and still that Padril swears he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. He almost leaps out of his skin when the cook opens a pair of large double doors, and both creak and groan on their hinges.

They’re abandoned in what is a larger-than-life circular library. It spans all three stories: tall bookshelves line the wall, floor to ceiling. The only thing that separates each level is a wooden walkway following the arch of the room. Light filters in through the occasional round window imbedded between the shelves.

Stretched out on the floor is a great white sheet, splattered and sprayed with different coloured paints. At the eye of it is a curious looking man: he’s older, a little older than Loghain.

What’s _curious_ about him is that he wears old, deep purple pyjamas that are as much patchwork as anything else. It looks almost like he’s wearing a strange quilt. His dark, ruddy-brown hair is greying, and he has a similar haircut to Garrett: shaved at the sides, but the mop on top of his head is unruly and wild.

His back, currently, is turned to them. Paintbrush in hand, he drags dark streaks across the canvas in front of him. To his left is a small table with several jars of paint on top.

“I wasn’t expecting visitors today. Did my wife organize something while I was in Nevarra City?”

He finds his hands growing clammy as they stand there— he’s so nervous, _so_ nervous it’s indescribable. _Say the wrong thing and he’ll throw us out, probably._

“No,” Loghain says, faster than Padril can stop him. “We came here on our own terms. Oswald, correct?”

The man stops painting, and he puts the brush down to peer at them both— it’s as if they’ve interrupted him during an _incredibly_ important moment. “That is I. If you forced your way in here, you’ve made a _grave_ mistake. How did you get in here? Who are you? What do you want?” He demands, voice rising in tone.

Padril dares to look at his face, finally— he stares at the man, and his heart flutters. Under his nose sits an elegantly curled moustache, and stubble lines his strong jaw. His cheekbones are high, his lips pressed together in a thin line. His ears are pointed, and his skin is only a shade lighter than Padril’s– crows’ feet gather at the corners of his eyes, and freckles dot his cheeks.

“Your guards aren’t really double checking paperwork with all the stress they’re under.” Padril offers. “We came through the front door. Uh— but, um, I promise we’re not here to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

Ok— it depended on what Oswald said, but for now that was the truth. 

Oswald looks at him like he’s waiting for an explanation, and Padril can’t help but fidget under the pressure of his eyes. A lump forms in his throat, and he finds himself unable to form words for a moment.

“Right! Right. Padril, Loghain,” He points to himself and the man by his side respectively, and swallows past the knot of anxiety. “And, um, we’re here to see you. Which is– I mean, I kinda said that, right? Right. Uh– I need to find my father–“

The elf gives a _heavy_ sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose, shakes his head. “Unfortunately for you, young man, I can’t disclose any details of the bodies that I tend to. Besides, even if I wanted to– which I don’t– I mind so many of the dead per day that it’s hard to remember who’s who.”

He lifts his hands, shakes them wildly. “No, no! That’s not– it’s not like that.” He trails off, anxiety wrapping its hands around his throat and _squeezing_.

But then Loghain’s hand find purchase on his lower back, warm and encouraging even though he doesn’t speak a word. It’s enough. “Actually, I— I was referring to you.”

Oswald makes a noise in the back of his throat that’s partly a scoff, partly a laugh. “I don’t have children. I _never_ have.”

_Oh, by the Dread Wolf, if the ground could swallow him whole right now…_

But there’s something else: Padril doesn’t catch it, but Loghain does. Oswald’s eyes dart between them both, and Loghain’s fists begin to curl into a ball. _He knows_ , he thinks, and a spark of anger is born in his chest.

It’s only a half a second, though, and then it’s gone: he’s back to looking unamused. Padril’s mouth feels drier than the Hissing Wastes; it’s like he’s been sucking on a sponge.

“Do you remember Amra? Amra Mahariel? She’s— she was a Dalish Hunter.” He pauses. 

Oh. It’s been so long since he’d last spoken about her. He can’t remember much, he’d been _young_ when Ashalle had taken over his care… but an ache blooms in his chest even so.

The mage’s eyebrows twitch into the beginnings of a frown, but otherwise he’s frustrating unreadable— to Padril, anyway. He’s far too on edge to pick out the details he would’ve otherwise; how he shifts his weight from one foot to another, how his fingers twist the ring on his hand. 

Padril decides to continue, then, his voice growing bolder; as nervous as he is, he _wants_ him to know. Wants answers. “My aunt, Ashalle, she told me she’d saved your caravan from bandits and that you both loved eachother. She also told me your name and that you were an artist, and, uh….” He looks behind him, at the half-formed painting on the easel. “I mean, y’know. It fits.”

The old man grows tense. He folds his arms across his chest, and he avoids Padril’s eyes. “Amra… rings a bell.”

 _Rings a bell._ Loghain has to suppress a scoff— it’s clear to him, at least, that this man was _lying_ through his teeth. 

He turns away from them and picks up his paintbrush. “Ah— well. I, uh… I am rather busy; I’m sorry you came all this way, but I’m afraid I can’t speak any longer. Ehem. I’m quite busy.” He repeats. “Please, the door is behind you— you may see yourselves out.”

Padril stands there, stunned. “Wait, what? We have to leave? But— we only just got here! I have so many questions and things to tell you about!” He protests.

Loghain dares to speak, now. He’s glaring daggers at his back as Oswald dips his brush into a jar of dark grey paint. “And you’ve got all the time in the world to paint. Your only son wants to talk to you. Can’t you see that’s a good thing?”

Oswald waves his free hand. “This is an important piece for an important client, and so I shouldn’t delay. It’s best you leave as soon as possible, lest I call the—“

“Please!” Padril begs, taking a step forward. Loghain follows. “Please, I have no one else. Everyone is either dead or missing and I— I have no one else.”

His voice is so full of sadness, so vulnerable— it hurts Loghain to hear. The idea of never wanting your own child has never occurred to him: it hurts to see it, too, but more than that, it makes him _mad_.

Oswald sighs again, more exasperated than the last. He all but slaps down his brush and spins on his heel; his eyes are narrowed dangerously. “Fine. Fine! What do you wish to know? To hear? That I’m glad to see you? That I regret leaving Ferelden without Amra? Because I’m not, and I don’t.”

It’s as if his heart shatters in his chest.

His expression remains cold. “When I met Amra, I was with a caravan on our way to Denerim. I was young and foolish and we _were_ attacked by bandits and she _did_ save my life. But I never loved her,” He says, shaking his head. “I didn’t know what I was getting into and neither did she. If I had’ve stayed with her clan, I would’ve been disowned by my family, and if I’d brought you both back it would’ve been the same. _Everything_ I’ve worked for wouldn’t matter!”

Loghain’s hands ball up, fingernails digging into his palms. He looks to Padril for any kind of cue: tears are welling up in the man’s eyes, and it only makes him madder.

There's a few things that ever seem to make him this mad: Orlesians being one of them. He's not sure what it is that's doing it-- whether it's the idea of abandoning your child or whether it's that Padril seems so _devastated_.

“I have _never_ wanted children and I certainly don’t want you now. It would _ruin_ me— not even my wife, Giovanna, knows about my time in Ferelden. By all means— congratulations on stopping the Blight. You’ll be remembered for centuries to come. But there is no place for you here.”

Oswald sighs as if it were all _such_ a heavy burden to bear. “Now, if we’re all done, I don’t have anything left to say and would appreciate it if you both—“

It’s the last straw. Loghain’s eyes flick to Padril— he’s watching him. He doesn’t hesitate.

Loghain _leaps_. Out of armour, it’s a lot easier— it’s only two steps before his fist connects with the bottom of Oswald’s jaw. He stumbles back and hits the ground with a surprised yelp. Immediately, he clutches as his jaw.

“You hit me!” Oswald exclaims, wild-eyed and frightened. He’s on his ass, and suddenly, Padril doesn’t feel so nervous.

“I did.” Loghain moves, and then he’s looming over him. “This is your _son_ you’re talking to. He’s done more good this past year than you’ve ever done in your life.” He hisses.

“Loghain, you don’t have to—“

“I _know_ , but I want to.” He turns on Oswald, again. “There are people at your gates who want you dead, your estate is empty, the entire country wants you gone: and what do you do? You turn your nose up at the one person who wants to know you.” He narrows his eyes, “He’s travelled _all_ this way to meet _you_.”

It takes him a moment to calm down, but he gets there. Hitting him helped, at least. He runs a hand over his face— Oswald stays crumpled up on the ground.

“So, what do you want to do with him?” He asks Padril. He figures van Markham’s idea is a bit rough: if he knows Padril at all, he’ll have his own take on it.

And he does. It’s barely a heartbeat before: “Let’s go.” His voice is soft and sad. “Let the people deal with him. They’ll give him what he deserves, anyway.”

They’re almost out into the hall when it all seems to hit-- no pun intended-- Oswald: he pushes himself up and shrieks in alarm: “Wait! _Wait_! What are you going to do?! Let them all in?! You can’t!” He waits a beat, and then— “Padril! Please!”

His voice echoes up and down the library, and they’re forced to acknowledge him— Padril slows to a halt. “What?”

“Listen, I’ll give you anything you want. Anything! Name your price and it’s yours! Just— don’t leave me to them!” He begs. 

Loghain isn’t falling for it. The sneer on his face is hard to forget, especially considering it was only _seconds_ ago. 

But Padril sees it differently. Or maybe he doesn’t and maybe it’s just how he’s wired— to help everyone and anyone. It seems likely. Either way, Padril purses his lips and eyes tight and sucks in a deep breath. “Dread Wolf be damned—“ Loghain catches the whisper, but barely. His eyes snap open. “This place has some kind of servant’s entrance, right? Denerim’s estates have them.”

Shock spreads across Oswald’s face: his begging _worked_. Tears spring to his eyes as he clambers to his feet. “Yes! Yes, we have one!”

“Good. Then let me warn you once: we’re going to say we killed you, and people are gonna wanna see it for themselves. And once they realize we’ve lied to them, they’re going to start hunting for you.” Padril’s voice falls flat on their ears– Loghain wonders if he’s forcing himself to stop caring. “Do you understand?”

Oswald freezes. Realistically, he could hold off a good number of them himself. He doesn’t _need_ their help, Loghain thinks, he's a Death Mage-- but who is he to take this away from Padril?

He nods.

“Then you should get a head start.”

It’s all he needs: Oswald leaps to his feet and _runs_ past them both, straight down the hall. He doesn’t even bother to stop and ask him what he wants in return– not that Padril _does_ want anything from him, of course.

His steps slapping on the cold marble fades out of hearing until a soft doorslam echoes from somewhere deep in the estate. Padril lets his shoulders drop and he stands in place for a moment, his head in his hands.

Loghain grimaces. “Come,” He murmurs, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s go tell van Markham it’s done.”

Ah, he’d never find out.

Hopefully.

**** 

Garrett van Markham sits on the edge of the fountain, a golden coin dancing between his fingers. He watches the chaos behind them as they approach, looking like a cat who’s eaten a canary.

He tosses the coin over his shoulder; it lands in the water with a splash and floats to the bottom. Somewhere behind them, people shout and scream as they pillage the estate. Smoke begins to float out of a broken third story window.

Of course, people will find out they’ve _lied_ in mere minutes: when they get closer, Loghain leads Garrett along with them. They slip back into the safety of van Markham’s home, and they pause in the hallway.

Padril feels numb. 

He’s up to his chest in freezing cold water and he’s sure it’ll end sooner or later, but for now it’s overwhelming and he’s not too certain _how_ to stop it.

“Well done, well done!” Van Markham praises, clapping: neither of them crack a smile. “Erm… well, I thought it was a job well done, anyway. You did it all in a terribly timely manner, yes? I expected to be waiting for hours.”

“He didn’t put up much of a fight.” Loghain grunts.

“Unsurprising,” Garrett waves his hand dismissively. “Thaddeus has– erm, _had_ – an unfortunate habit of running away and disappointing many people in his life. But at least you did not have to struggle against a Death Mage. Perhaps there is a silver lining to it, yes?”

Padril isn’t sure what to say. What _is_ he meant to say, after all?

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to say much. Loghain rolls up the sleeves of his black shirt as he says, “I suppose there is. But– and I hope you don’t mind, Padril– I’ve been thinking on what you said earlier. There _is_ something else I’d have of you. I want to find around eighty, perhaps ninety Ferelden elves that were purchased by Tevinter slavers in the last four to five months. I need you to find some kind of record of them– or to point me in the direction of someone who _can_.”

Well. It’s clear van Markham doesn’t expect that question: he blinks a couple of times, starts to grow fidgety. “Well… that is… a tall order. You realize that elves are bought and sold _all the time_ by the ‘vints, correct?” His eyes dart to Padril.

“Of course.”

“This could take you months. Believe me.”

“I do. And?”

Garrett gives him an indignant look, eyes squinting. It’s like he wants them gone now that he has no use for them, Loghain muses. “Fine. I know someone who can help you. But do _not_ come crying to me if you do not find them. For all you know, they could be halfway across Thedas by now.”

“That’s fine.” 

He grits his teeth. “You will have to stay in Nevarra for a few more days as well. I need to write to my associate– they _should_ reply within the week, if they are not busy.” 

It’s not quite the answer he wants to hear, Padril can tell, but he nods with his jaw tense anyway. “You know to find us at the Laughing Raven. I’m holding you to your word, van Markham. Within the week.” 

“Of course!” Garrett waves his hand again, scoffing. “I expect no less. You will get what I promised you, do not worry.” He dares to smirk, then, a soft chuckle escaping him. “And if I do not deliver, I would be better of running for the hills, hm?”

They don’t find it as funny as him, and it cuts his amusement short. “I’d certainly consider it,” Loghain says. “If I were you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah!
> 
> Another chapter down, a few more to go! I don't feel guilty for cutting it a little short and changing my goal for this fic almost halfway through, but it's like... I started this early last year, so it feels a little weird to be finishing it and NOT working on it in some way.
> 
> It's bizarre.
> 
> Anyway, I enjoyed diving into their characters with this. Padril just keeps getting let down, huh? I should give him a break (and I never will, lmfao). 
> 
> I think Loghain's a guy who really struggles with his emotions, particularly anger. He really only shouts once or twice in Origins, and so I kinda really imagine him as a guy who's ashamed of a lotta stuff, particularly anger and how he acts when in the middle of a PTSD episode (whatever that's entirely my headcanon and I won't go into it here but lmao). 
> 
> But anyway, thank you for reading another chapter! I appreciate it so much. If you'd like to keep up with me outside of AO3, I'm l0ghainmactir on twitter and loghainmactir on tumblr!


	9. shadows flickering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> with new adventures on the horizon, loghain and padril take a moment to relax; it never is that easy.

Getting back to the Laughing Raven turned out to be a _chore_. If they weren’t pushing their way through the curious, lively crowds that had begun to swarm the streets, they were otherwise busy struggling to retrace their steps. Siegfried had notably left out instructions on how to get back without taking a _century_ to do it.

Neither of them have the energy to discuss the idea of hunting down around ninety elven slaves across Thedas, so they agree to discuss the next course of action tomorrow. Instead, they collapse in their room, emotionally and physically exhausted.

Loghain has set himself up with a bedroll on the ground, and Padril takes the bed with Dannan, who greets them noisily as they enter. 

While Padril sleeps peacefully, Loghain finds himself drifting in and out for hours, staring at the ceiling. Gentle music from the inn below them floats up through the floorboards. 

He’s not sure _exactly_ how much time passes, but something begins to feel wrong. It’s like the darkness is overwhelming him and weighing him down; unrest begins to settle in his gut.

He does his best to seek out the soft sound of Padril’s breathing— there it is, a gentle rise and fall, consistent. His eyes scan the ceiling and then wander over to the lump of mabari curled at the end of the bed. Dannan’s paws hang off the edge, his head wedged between them.

At least they’re still there, he thinks, and he tries to force himself to relax. But it does not come. _Come now,_ he thinks. _Nothing is wrong. You’re overthinking it–_

His eyes catch the _slightest_ hint of movement in the darkness near the foot of the bed. He forces himself to look away, to ignore it as best as possible. It's just shadows, he reminds himself. If it were anything else, Dannan would have warned them about it immediately.

That’s what he tells himself before an arm hooks around the corner of the bed.

Loghain tenses. It’s an arm, and then a shoulder, and then an entire body shrouded in darkness. He’s not sure how it’s possible, but it’s as if the figure is somehow blacker than the night around it.

It _must_ be there for him. Must be. Why wasn’t Dannan waking up? He tries to listen for Padril again, for any hint he’s awake– _or alive,_ a voice in the back of his brain whispers.

He goes to slip his hand up and under his pillow for the hunting knife hiding there, but he cannot move. It’s like his arms and legs are trapped in stone and his heart begins to hammer in his chest like a drum. He finds only the tips of his fingers and toes can wiggle, and he tries _so hard_ to move, but he can’t.

The figure comes closer. It drops down onto all fours, grotesque but humanlike, and it crawls up his legs. A shout rises in his throat and catches below his jaw— it’s stuck and he cannot yell, he cannot move, cannot cry for help. The most he can do is squeeze his eyes shut as tight as he can when the figure looms over his chest, face-to-face.

Loghain focuses on the tips of his toes, tries to get his legs and feet moving— they refuse, no matter how hard he tries. He yells against lips that are wired shut, and his head grows light and dizzy. It feels like he cannot breathe.

The tip of something _sharp_ presses through his thin cotton shirt. It draws a slow, lazy line from one side of his hip to the other. He imagines the burn of his skin tearing open, the contents of his stomach spilling across the floor. How Padril would find him in a pool of his own blood, white as a ghost.

He can feel its breath on his cheek, warm and heavy, like it’s been drinking. The blade ghosts across his stomach again, digs in this time. Enough to make Loghain suck in heavy, frantic breaths through his nose. 

The voice, when it speaks, is familiar. Orlesian. Old. 

“Stay still or I’ll gut you like the pig you are, mh?”

His lungs burn, and he tries to scream— _Maker_ , he tries and he tries and he tries and he tries but all that comes out is a muffled cry. Tears force their way out of the corners of his eyes, and he sees his mother behind his eyelids.

It’s been decades: he can’t even remember what she used to look like. She’s always bloody and broken when he sees her. He remembers her screams all too well. He remembers their voices.

 _His voice._

Warm hands grasp his bicep, and his eyes fly open. Another shadow hovers near him, eyes yellow and shining.

It’s so quick, he can’t help it– his mouth snaps open and a scared, strangled cry bursts from his throat. His arms and legs are light again, free. He pushes his arms and legs with all his strength, scrambling away from his bedroll until his back hits the wall with a thump.

“Loghain? Loghain!”

The new shadow moves to kneel beside the bedside table and lights a small candle– orange hits Padril’s groggy, concerned features. Loghain blinks, eyes darting around the room.

There’s no sign of the Orlesian with the knife. 

The curtains of their singular window have been drawn shut and they stand still. Dannan stands on the bed to peer down at them curiously. Loghain slips his hand underneath the bottom of his shirt– but it felt so _real_. He pulls his legs up to his chest, his arms tight around them.

“It’s ok,” Padril says, shuffling forward on his knees until he sits in front of him. “You’re safe, Loghain.” His voice is soft and comforting, and he rests a hand on his arm. “I heard you yelling in your sleep. You sounded scared, I didn’t want to leave you to suffer.”

“Thank you,” His throat feels drier than the Silent Plains. He’s afraid if he keeps speaking, his voice will dry up and never come back again. Licking his lips barely helps. “I— have we got water?”

Padril leaves to go search for the water they’d bought without hesitation, and part of Loghain regrets it. His hands had been so warm against his cold skin, keeping him grounded. For a few seconds it feels like he’s floating above himself, numb.

He doesn’t catch the sight of Padril tucking something from their bags into his pockets.

He scoots back to him and offers him the waterskin; he touches his arm again when he doesn't respond, and he’s back to earth. He blinks, thanks him once more, and drains the leather-bound flask in under a minute. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sighs.

Padril squirms. “Do… you want to talk about it?” His brow furrows in concern. “… We don’t have to. I just– if you wanna, y’know?” His voice remains quiet, like he’s trying to keep it between them even though they’re the only ones in the room.

A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead: he hadn’t realised he’s broken into a cold sweat. He wipes at his face with his hand. “I—“ His breath hitches as he struggles to explain.

It’s happened before, but it always catches him off guard. Sometimes it’s the men who brutalized his mother, sometimes it’s King Meghren. Other times it’s generic darkspawn-esque forms, and it’s part of why it always shocks him. Each time feels more vivid than the last.

He lets out a shaky sigh.

“I saw… something. A man, I think.” He begins. It’s so hard to look at him as he speaks: when he does, shame begins to well in the pit of his stomach. “One of the m…” He forces himself to breathe through his nose. Loghain shifts, rests his elbow to his knee, his hand to his forehead. “Men who—“

“You don’t have to.” Padril reassures him, squeezing his arm. So he doesn’t. It’s such a small thing, Loghain thinks, but it’s helping. It makes him feel _seen_. “Actually, before I forget…” 

Padril slips a long object from his pocket, and the movement makes his eyes lift. It’s the strangest thing: in his hands, he holds a dagger. The hilt and pommel are normal– bronze metal wrapped in leather. But it’s the _blade_ that’s different: it’s bright blue and shimmering like the ocean on a clear-sky day, and it’s _gorgeous_.

The elf clears his throat. “I’ve actually been saving this since Amaranthine. A while ago, I brought a couple of dragon scales to Wade and Herren, and they offered to make me something out of them.” He looks at the blade in his hand, studies it for a moment. “I wasn’t sure what to ask of them until we were there for a few months. I figured, y’know, you’ve helped a lot– and it’s only gotten worse… err, better? So I wanted to get you something.” He pauses to suck in a deep breath. “To thank you for being here with me. Properly, that is.”

Loghain’s face softens. He didn’t expect—

“But, uh, y’know. No big deal otherwise. It’s a gift and, uh, you can— ehem— always tell me to piss off if you need to, um… y’know.” Padril thrusts the thing towards him, unsure of what to do. “And it was silly. Uh, sorry—“

Before he knows what he’s doing, exactly, Loghain is lurching forward. It feels like his entire body envelopes the elf’s when he hugs him— he’s so much smaller than him. For a moment, he feels Padril freeze.

But then the dagger clatters to the ground between them and he’s being hugged back. He squeezes him gently. “I could hardly leave you to do all this on your own, Padril.” He feels Padril bury his face against his shoulder. “And the idea of leaving you settled badly with me. At first I felt like I owed it to you, but now... I'm glad I'm here.”

Loghain surprises himself with how long they stay like that. When Padril pulls away, he’s wiping at his eyes with his hands.

“Creators. I knew I shouldn’t have expected anything from him, and yet… it hurt, y’know?”

“I know.” Loghain scoops the dagger into his hands. It’s warm, and he can’t help but study the fine craftsmanship. He doesn’t _really_ know what it’s like– he’s never spoken to Anora like Oswald spoke to Padril and he can’t ever imagine doing so– but he tries. “He got what was coming to him, I believe.”

Padril sniffs. “I dunno. What if I could’ve convinced him I was worth his time? I—“

“Padril,” He interrupts, taking one of his hands in his. “If he needed convincing, he wasn’t worth _your_ time in the first place. He had no right to speak to you like that. _No one_ has that right. You deserve someone who loves you, you understand?”

There’s a strange expression on Padril’s face that Loghain can’t quite put his finger on. His bottom lip quivers as if he wants to say something, but then it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. His eyes drop to the floor, head bowed– _avoiding_ Loghain’s gaze, even, for the moment.

It’s less than a heartbeat before Padril throws himself forward to hug him once more. His arms wind around his neck, Loghain’s around his waist– except this time, a gentle kiss presses against his cheek. It takes him a second to truly register it.

Padril pulls himself back, looking at him with these sad, brown eyes. Their faces are so close it makes him nervous, though he’ll admit he’s not quite sure why. “You deserve that too, y’know. Someone who loves you. I think–“ He pauses, like he’s trying out different sentences in his head. “I think you’re way too harsh on yourself, sometimes. You’ve got good in you, trust me.”

He slips away for the bed, leaving Loghain sitting against the wall, blinking into the dim room. Surprise settles on his face, and something else— something warm and fluttery— trickles into his chest. It completely erodes the dread that was there before, makes him forget what he'd been so upset about.

Padril has flopped onto his side. It looks like he’s hiding, the sheets pulled over his head, and he can't help but crack a smile.

Loghain moves, his limbs stiff from holding himself so tightly for so long. He’s almost completely back in his bedroll when Dannan jumps from the bed to sit only a few arms’ lengths away. 

His tongue lolls out of his mouth, and it almost looks like he’s _smiling_ , his little pointed ears perked.

“Don’t you smile at me.” Loghain mumbles, and a soft, amused snort comes from the bed.

He gets comfortable, and Dannan decides to lay down beside him, his massive, heaving form resting against his back. It’s a soothing reminder of Adalla, like Dannan could _sense_ the tension in him.

Loghain is on his side facing away from Padril, staring at the door. Absentmindedly, his hand moves up, and his fingers ghost his cheek. It’s like the scene is on loop in his head, much more pleasant than the memories from before: Padril’s arms around his neck, how close their faces were.

Lips soft on rough, stubbled cheeks.

_Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow.
> 
> First off: thank you so much for reading all nine chapters of this, if you've gotten so far. You're incredible. Every single kudos, comment, ask and message I've gotten with relation to these two has pushed me along, no joke.
> 
> But yikes, nine whole-ass chapters. I've never done that before. Like, ever, in my life. It's incredible to see how much work I've put into this over the last four-five months especially: I slammed out the rest of the chapters and I'm happy with them all, for the most part.
> 
> This one was weird to write. I wanted something between Nevarra and Kirkwall, where they'd hypothetically be off to next, and I wanted to dive a little more into Loghain's mental illnesses, but hm. I dunno. Anyway--
> 
> I definitely have more ideas I want to do but for now this is all I can manage. I have chapter ideas drafted (ten even has a little bit written) and I have cut pieces, but for now, this is where I leave Loghain and Padril.
> 
> They'll be ok. They'll figure eachother out, and I'll visit them again soon, I hope.
> 
> Thank you again, with all my heart, for supporting this. It means so much to me.


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